“Just some bruises,” I whisper, gesturing towards my ribs and stomach. “Nothing worse.” Christian’s jaw clenches, hard, at the thought of what they could have done to me – the terrors to which men put women when they want to hurt them deeply. But Christian steels himself, reigning his emotions bac
Perhaps sensing my humor, the smirk on my lips, Christian flicks his eyes up at me. “What?” he murmurs, a smile starting on his lips as well. I just shake my head at him. “Christian, what are you going to do?” The smile falls away from his face and he drops his head again, not looking at me. “
“Yes, Iris,” Christian replies, his voice low and dangerous. “There are still ways to protect you. Even here, at the end of the world. I wish you’d just let me.” “Fine,” I say, my voice too light, too casual. Christian narrows his eyes, trying to figure out my game. I lift my drink to him in a lit
“They’re going to…pick a side,” Christian says, looking down at his drink, a muscle flicking in his jaw. “Really?” I ask, my voice breathy, my brows going up. “And…wait, are you serious? They wouldn’t choose you?” “My side is the losing side,” he snaps, unintentional, moving his eyes up to meet
We move out of the kitchen then, Christian making his way back to the little iron fireplace to continue stacking some logs while I head into the bathroom for a quick shower, wanting to wash the day off of me before we settle down for the night. I take my whiskey with me, wanting the peaceful buzz it
I gasp when I see what it is – one of our absolute favorites from childhood, and a start to a trilogy that I realize, suddenly, we’re going to be spending our entire evening working our way through. “This is amazing,” I say, laughing aloud, my eyes going wide as the opening credits start to roll ove
I lose myself completely to it for a second – to the feel of Christian’s mouth moving against mine, to the way his hair feels against my fingers as I slip them through his hair, to the way his hand slides down along my side with intent, with reverence. But when that palm hits one of the bruises on
“Why are you laughing?” he asks, his brows drawing together. “What on earth is funny about this?” “It’s just,” I say, dropping my hands and hoping that my face shows him how sorry I am. But still, I continue, not quite buying it. “Chris,” I say, holding out a hand between us, “you can’t say that y