Page 20 of Ugly Truths (The Veiled Truths Trilogy #2)

Silas

M y insides detonate, the ache ripping through me before settling into a low hum that anchors itself in the center of my chest. Because nothing has ever felt so fucking right.

And it shouldn’t.

Elena freezes beneath me. For a moment, there’s nothing but the press of my mouth against hers and the rush of blood in my ears. I sink into the heat of her lips and the softness I’ve tried so hard to forget.

A breath shudders out of me—rough and unsteady—and that’s what breaks her stupor. Her fingers curl to the front of my shirt as she fuses our chests together.

Her tongue slides across my bottom lip in a hot, slow swipe, and I’m done for. I fall headfirst into the feeling I’ve been hating myself for needing ever since she left.

I shift to press my weight into her, pinning Elena against the wall and giving myself better leverage.

The perfect height for me to devour, and strong enough to take it.

But her body goes rigid again. The hand that was just pulling me forward is suddenly flat against my chest, feebly pushing me back.

The sting of her sudden rejection barely registers. I cinch my arms tighter, mapping out the space below her ear with my mouth when hers stops responding, teeth scraping lower against her neck.

Every inch of her tastes the same; the lingering mint toothpaste in her mouth to her clean, salty skin. I should hate her for it, because it shouldn’t be possible for something to hurt so deeply while still being the only thing that feels like home.

“Silas, we can't,” Elena breathes, voice shaking. “We can’t do this. You have a girlfriend.”

My lips still against the curve of her throat, her coconut scent leaving me disoriented.

Girlfriend—right. Alice.

A bitter chuckle escapes me. I should let her believe it and use it as a shield to keep the remaining hatred sharp, but all my fight is gone.

My words are half surrender, half confession. “There’s no one else, Elena.”

The hand against my chest twitches. “That’s not what it looked like the other day,” she says.

When I’m sure she won’t push me away, my lips return to their exploration, skating across her jaw until I’m looking down at her again.

“Alice is sweet,” I admit, hands roaming upward, tracing the familiar lines along her ribs, up the curve of her breast. The way she arches into me, even as she fights it, makes something vicious twist in my gut. “Intelligent. Beautiful. And she hasn’t tried to ruin my entire life.”

Shame flickers across her face, followed by doubt as she starts to shrink into herself. She thinks this is a game or a punishment. Maybe it should be. I could walk away before I let myself feel anything beyond this.

Even though those words scream in my head, my hand curls to the nape of her neck to keep her in place and the truth bubbles up like acid in the back of my throat.

“But she isn’t you.”

Elena’s eyes widen just a fraction. There’s no missing the pain in my admission, and her mouth pulls downward at the corners.

It takes several moments for her hand to relax. Her fingertips trace the fabric of my shirt in a tender gesture that contrasts with the sudden tears she attempts to blink away.

Her throat bobs. “I want to say yes,” she whispers, though she doesn’t pull back, “but this is a bad idea.”

The second the words leave her mouth, something caves in my chest. My lungs won’t fill.

Then heat pours out of that hollow space. It drenches me—surges through every open inch of me—flooding my veins with a rage so blinding I can barely see straight.

A bad idea.

She must feel the way my body tenses, but her hands keep moving, soft and careful over my pec like she’s trying to soothe a wound she didn’t cause.

Her voice is so brittle that it breaks on the edges. “Nothing good will come of it,” she murmurs. “We’re both still hurting. I can’t speak for you, but I—” her eyes cast down to my chest. “I can’t go through this again. Not a second time.”

Not

A

Second

Time?

My fingers twist further into her hair, yanking down to angle her face up. She grunts at the pressure, swallowing the rest of her cry as I lean in, towering over her. The tears in her eyes are thicker now, clinging to her lashes, but she doesn’t look away.

Good. I want her to see this. To feel it.

Because how fucking dare she.

“ You can’t go through this a second time?” I seethe through gritted teeth. “ Because of the things you did—the decisions you made—without letting me have a say?”

Did she mourn me the way I mourned her? Was she haunted by nightmares of me so vivid they bled into the morning? Did she learn to love me and hate me in the same breath? To wake up burning for someone she swore she’d never touch again?

My punishing hold tightens.

There’s no coward’s way out this time. If I’m suffering, she’ll be shackled right alongside me.

“I’m going to fuck you exactly how I want,” I growl, dark and final, “and you’re going to take it—” I lean in to make sure she sees me, hears me, feels everything I’m saying, “because you deserve whatever I’m willing to give you.”

A tremble ripples through her as the tears fall freely.

Time suspends between us.

I wait.

Her chest rises and falls in shallow bursts. Those honey eyes search my face. Maybe for a hint of softness or a way out. I don't offer either.

And still, I wait.

The fear in her eyes doesn’t disappear so much as it bleeds from her in a slow leak. It’s as if all the fight in her is being sucked out from the bottom of her feet. By the time her shoulders slump, her gaze locks onto mine, wide and glassy and unblinking, before nodding just once.

It’s all I need.

Our mouths collide. There’s a sharp bite of pain where her nails dig into my chest, and my whole body ignites once again.

We only part long enough to tear off our shirts, returning to each other like magnets before the fabric even hits the floor.

I nearly groan at the way her bra drags against me, her nipples stiff beneath the thin lace.

One practiced flick of my hand and the clasp gives, the bra slipping down her front and catching between us for a second before it’s gone.

My hands clamp around her hips as I pivot, forcing her back toward the bed. Elena stumbles, knees hitting the edge before she falls onto the mattress.

She’s breathing unevenly, eyes dragging down my body with the same hunger I feel clawing at my insides. My gaze rakes over the curves scorched into my memory and breasts that fit perfectly in my hands.

Why do I still have to feel this way looking at her?

My descent starts at her mouth when I finally close in, and she gives in greedily—tongue stroking mine with new desperation. I take and take and take, hands roaming up her stomach until I circle one of her nipples, already tight and ready between my fingers as I pinch.

She moans into the kiss, thrusting her chest into my touch. The response sends a wave of satisfaction tearing through me, vibrating through both of us as I pull harder, coaxing another gasp from her lips.

My hand drifts lower until it brushes the button of her jeans, and I break the kiss to follow my own movements like a starving dog. Suddenly, her fingers curl around mine with hesitation.

Frustration flares as I glance up at her, but the panic in her eyes stops me dead in my tracks.

Her grip loosens a little, but she doesn’t let go. “There are scars,” she whispers, small and unsure. “From the explosion. On my backside, mostly below my waist.”

She said in the recordings that she spent weeks recovering at Jeff’s place, but I was too angry to think much about what that could mean.

As if any of that could matter to me after everything else.

Without breaking eye contact, I continue my reach, slower this time, giving her a chance to pull away. She doesn’t.

The button pops open with ease, and I lean forward to press a lingering kiss to her sternum.

I take my time, mouthing down the front of her body, pausing at each breast, lavishing both with my tongue and soft sucks until her breath hitches and her fingers tangle in my hair to tug at the root.

Her skin is silk under my lips, and I can’t seem to pull away long enough to suck in a breath.

When I finally reach the waistband of her jeans, I drag the zipper down and peel the denim from her hips, tugging her panties down with them in one smooth pull.

Only when they're both discarded on the floor do I see one scar that starts at her left hip.

The uneven lines continue down and disappear where her backside meets the mattress.

With too much force, I’m flipping Elena over and tossing her further onto the bed. She lets out a startled yelp from her as she bounces into place, and I can see everything.

Most scars are faint now, healed with time, but some stretch across the curve of her ass and down the backs of her thighs. My jaw tightens as I picture Jeff’s wife treating her in their home. Her body fevered, unable to move. Alone. Sick. In pain.

And I wasn’t there .

It rips through me almost as viscerally as everything else.

My index finger traces every ridge, every curve, marred and perfect. Goosebumps rise under my touch, and Elena shivers.

Over the fullness of her ass, I palm her, watching the skin indent around my hand, and that’s when I realize how hard I am.

Aching, straining, fucking desperate. My other hand moves without thought, unfastening my jeans, freeing myself with a hissed breath as I stroke once just to keep from losing control too fast.

Elena lifts her hips slightly, pressing into my touch in a silent permission that nearly obliterates me.

I yank her up by the hips, dragging her into place. Knees wide, elbows down, ass high. And fuck me, the view steals the breath from my lungs.