Page 32 of Song Bird Hearts (Green River Hearts #4)

“My breath stops when you walk into a room. When you smile, I lose all train of thought. I twist like a fucking sunflower at the sound of your voice!” He takes a step toward me again and my eyes lock on his.

“I don’t hate you. I fucking love you, and I hate myself for it!

” His words choke off. “I ain’t the right choice, Val.

Those other two, they’ll take real good care of you.

But me, I’ll strangle you in the middle of the night when I wake up from a nightmare, reliving the glory days of war.

I’ll be angry and jaded, and I won’t tell you why.

I might punch a hole in the wall and wish it was some asshole instead.

You belong in the spotlight, where everyone can see. I’m stuck in the shadows.”

I blink rapidly. “Then why not let a little light in?”

He swallows thickly. “Because I’m scared,” he admits. “Of what it would mean for me. Of what it would mean for you.”

We stare at each other. “So you do love me?” I clarify.

“Unfortunately,” he grunts.

“Then I need you to kiss me,” I say. “Or else I might lose my mind from this tension.”

“I shouldn’t?—”

“I could die tomorrow,” I remind him.

“That’s not fair to hold over me.”

“You wanna die with regrets?” I demand. “’Cause I sure don’t.”

“Goddamn it, Trouble!” he snarls and then his arm snaps out and wraps around my wrist. “You’re gonna regret this more.”

Our mouths crash together, brutal and wild.

There’s no finesse, just need, sharp and bloody.

I shove him back against the wall and drag his shirt over his head, desperate to feel his skin against mine.

His chest is covered with a light smattering of hair that trails down his abs and tattoos I’d be eager to explore if we weren’t so frantic.

I run my hands through it, tracing the tattoos etched into his skin that speak of his time in the military and other moments of his life I don’t even know.

Among the tattoos and larger scars, small white marks mar his collarbone, perfectly straight, perfectly in line.

My fingers dance over them before he rips my hand away.

He kicks the door shut as his hands reach for my thighs. He lifts be up and presses me back against the dresser like it’s the only think keeping us upright.

“Tell me to stop,” he growls against my lips.

“Don’t you dare,” I hiss.

I pull his belt free and throw it across the room. His knife glints where it sits clipped into his pocket, the small pocketknife drawing my attention as it catches the light. My eyes flick from it to the small scars on his skin, all perfect, all pristine.

“It ain’t what you’re thinkin’,” he says, pausing.

“Then what is it?” I ask. “You do these to yourself?”

“No,” he says, pulling his pocketknife from his hip and flipping it open. He hands it to me. “Use it.”

I freeze. “What?”

“Cut me.” His pupils blow wide as his chest heaves, the idea of it making him strain against his jeans. “I need it. please.”

“Knox. . .”

“Please, Trouble,” he groans. “I want you to hurt me. Just a little.”

Knox is a large man. Even at my height, he’s taller than I am. He makes me feel small and it’s a feeling I’m not used to. He’s asking this of me, asking for what he needs, and I. . . I can do that for him. After everything. Even if my every move reflects my hesitation.

My hands shake as I reach for the blade in his hand. I’m not afraid, but something darker whispers in my mind that makes me tremble. Tenderness. I’ve never seen him like this, bare and asking.

I clench the knife tightly and he tilts his head, offering the side of his neck.

“Just a scratch,” he whispers. “Make it real.”

I press the blade against his skin, just enough to sting, just enough to break through. It’s wicked sharp, and I’m careful not to cut any deeper than surface level, no deeper than for a single drop of blood to weep out.

He gasps, and he kisses me violently, unconcerned with the knife against his neck.

I keep my hand clamped tight on it, terrified I’ll drop it and we’ll somehow land on it.

We should not have started down this journey with the knife I’ve watched Knox sharpen to the edge of a scalpel.

I’m not confident in my ability not to stab him on accident.

Our clothes vanish rapidly, our stuttered breaths turning to curses as we scramble toward the bed.

He lifts me like I weigh nothing at all and lays me down on the sheets, his body coming down to cover mine.

I hold my hand out to the side, the knife pointed down into the bed sheets I’m probably cutting into.

All that thunder in his chest, the angry storm he carries, rumbles at his shoulders, begging for more.

There’s no slow build up like with the others. We’ve danced around each other for too long for us to tease. This is raw and desperate, a hungry need that has me leaking for him between my thighs.

He grabs my thighs and jerks me toward him before flipping me onto my stomach and yanking my hips up.

He thrusts inside me before I can take a single breath, his cock stretching me so wide, I scream as my hand clutches at the knife.

I shut my eyes against the sensation, like it hurts. Maybe it does. Maybe it’s supposed to.

“Harder,” I beg, crying into the sheets. “Don’t hold back.”

“I can’t. . . I’ll break you?—”

“Then fucking break me,” I snarl as I stab the knife into the mattress, Knox’s blood drops staining the sheets.

We move like this is combat, like it’s a last prayer before we die. Every thrust is a war cry. Every moan is a surrender. He buries his face in my shoulder, panting my name like a confession. . . or a letter slipped into his pocket meant for me when he dies by gunfire.

“You’ll never be free of me,” he snarls in my ear. His hand wraps around mine, the one holding the knife. “Not now. Not ever.” He bites at my skin. “I’m going to thread myself around your neck and strangle you with how much I love you.”

I cry out in pleasure as he hits deep inside me, as he hits the sensitive spots over and over again. When we finally break, we break together, shaking and sweat-slicked and guttural from the inside out.

He doesn’t let me go. He curls around me like I’m the only thing holding him together. When I try to shift, to speak to him, he stops me with strong arms keeping me close.

“Don’t move,” he whispers. “Just let me hold you. Just a little bit longer.”

“Knox—”

“I have to let you go. I know that. But just not yet.”

So I don’t move. I stay wrapped in his arms, my heart aching in rhythm with his breath, that damn pocketknife still white-knuckled in my fingers. He’ll ask me to cut him again, and I will. I’ll give him anything he needs of me.

We’re just two broken things, tangled up in something that feels dangerously close to hope.