Page 33 of Lupo

"What?"

I stand, moving closer to her. Close enough that she has to tilt her head back to look at me, close enough that I can see the pulse beating at her throat.

"I meant what I said earlier. I'm going to keep you safe. You and Elena." I pause, making sure she understands. "Whatever that takes. Whatever I have to do. No matter what it costs."

"Lupo."

"I'm not a good man, Isabella. I don't know exactly what I was, but I know it wasn't good. The things I can do, the way I think about violence, it's not normal. It's not right."

"I know."

"But I'm going to use it to protect you. All of it. Every dark, brutal part of whatever I am, I'm going to put it between you and anyone who tries to hurt you."

She's quiet for a long moment, searching my face. Then, so quietly I almost don't hear it, "I believe you."

"You should be afraid of me."

"I’m not." She reaches out, and her hand brushes my arm, just a touch, feather light, but it burns.

We stand there in the darkness. "Lupo," she whispers, and the way she says my name, the name that isn't even mine, undoes something in me.

I don't know who moves first. Maybe both of us. Maybe neither. But suddenly the space between us is gone and my hands are in her hair and her mouth is on mine.

The kiss is fierce. Desperate. Like we're both drowning and the other is air. Her hands grip my shirt, pulling me closer, and I back her against the barn wall, careful not to hurt her but unable to be gentle. The small sound she makes in the back of her throat nearly destroys me.

This is wrong. I know it's wrong.

I'm a stranger with a violent past, she's a woman running from abuse, we're both in danger, and this is the worst possible time.

But God, I want her. Want this. Want to feel something other than confusion and fear and rage. Want to be someone other than whoever the hell I really am.

Her fingers thread through my hair, and I deepen the kiss, pressing closer. For just this moment, nothing else exists. Not Draco. Not the men at the market. Not my missing memory or the violence written into my bones.

Just her. Just this.

Then she pulls back, gasping.

For a heartbeat, we stare at each other in the darkness. Her lips are swollen, her hair messed from my hands, her chest rising and falling rapidly. She looks beautiful and terrified and wanting all at once.

"I can't," she whispers. "I can't do this."

The rejection stings, but I understand.

"It's not—" She stops, pressing her hand to her mouth. "It's not that I don't want to. God, I want to. But this is—"

"Complicated."

"Impossible." She takes another step back, putting distance between us. "You don't even know who you are. And I, I can't let myself feel this. Not when everything is so—"

"I understand." And I do. She's right. This is reckless. Dangerous in ways that have nothing to do with physical threats. "I'm sorry. I shouldn’t have kissed you."

"Don't be sorry." Her voice breaks slightly. "Just give me time. Give me space to think."

"Of course. Take all the time you need."

She backs toward the door, and I can see her fighting to regain her composure, to rebuild the walls that the kiss just shattered.

"Goodnight, Lupo."