Breaking Her (Love is War #2) (28 page)

"It's all in the past," I murmured into her forehead.
 
I was running my hand over her head, over and over, petting her.
 
It was an old familiar gesture, the way I always used to comfort her before our lives had gone to shit.
 
"We can put it in the past and leave it there.
 
We can move on.
 
We will find a way to move on," I told her, the words ringing desperate because I was trying to convince myself, as well.
 

"You don't know," she sobbed brokenly.
 
"You don't know."
 

I shut my eyes, old, familiar pain washing over me.
 
My voice was thick with emotion when finally I said, "I do know.
 
We both do now.
 
All that's left is to move forward."
   

She started shaking her head and didn't stop.
 
"No.
 
No.
 
You don't know.
 
You
don't know."
 

"What don't I know, angel?
 
Tell me.
 
I'll try to fix it, whatever it is."

But she wouldn't say.
 
She was done talking and back to weeping.
 
She was so upset she'd bitten her lips bloody.
 
She didn't seem to notice, her eyes shut tight, but I did.
 

It was another thing I'd only seen her do one time before.

Quietly and firmly, with my fingers, I made her stop.
 

"Shh.
 
Shh.
 
It's okay," I soothed her, blotting at her lips with my shirt.
 

All the while, my heart was breaking all over again.
   

She didn't ask me any more questions that night, and I was relieved.
 

We'd both reached our threshold on suffering for the moment.
 

I hoped that the worst was past us, but I've never had much luck with hope.
     

CHAPTER
 

TWENTY-THREE

"Life is hard.
 
After all, it kills you."

~Katharine Hepburn

PAST

SCARLETT

"Do you know the kind of trouble that old bitch has gotten me into?
 
Do you even
care
that you're messing with my career?
 
All I've ever done is care about you and try to do right by you, and this is how you repay me?"
 
Harris spoke to me in a low, mean voice, pitched quiet enough that his words didn't carry beyond his usual stalking booth in the diner.
   

That was the first time I started to get a real sense that he was delusional.
 
He seemed to have some idea in his head of what our relationship was, and it was not even remotely close to reality.
 

"I don't know what you're talking about," I said stoically.
 
I started to move away.
 

"Vivian Durant.
 
She's been prying into my actions, questioning my methods.
 
She went over my head, to my superiors, and, because she's filthy rich, they're listening to her."
 

Finally an encouraging development.
 
It made me feel brave enough to say, "Good.
 
Maybe you should stop bothering me every day.
 
Maybe you should give up on stalking teenage girls altogether if you don't want to get into trouble for it."
 

I dodged away when I saw the look on his face.
 
If we'd been alone with him looking at me like that . . . I'd have been very concerned for my safety.
   

Harris stopped coming to the diner after that.
   

I thought that was the end of it.
 
I really did.
 
I stopped worrying about him, stopped dreading any possible run-ins, stopped letting fear rule my actions.

Gram had scared him off and that was that.
 
Yay for Gram.
   

I put him out of my mind.
 

But Harris was only biding his time.
 
He was patient, and determined, and he held all of the power.
 

He showed up at school one day.
 
He had no trouble pulling me out of class.
 
All it took was a brief conversation with my English teacher and that was it.
 

"Scarlett," Mrs. Cowen called.
 
"Detective Harris would like a word."
   

The girl next to me muttered, "The hot cop is here for you?
 
Lucky girl."

I walked out into the hallway, turning to look at Harris.
 
I folded my arms across my chest, stance belligerent.
 
Expression belligerent.
 
Attitude belligerent.

He killed that little bit of defiance soon enough.
 
"Your boyfriend is finally being charged for that murder.
 
A warrant's been issued and some officers are planning to pick him up at football practice."
   

I felt ill.
 
Literally.
 
I thought I might throw up.
 
I'd been so sure he was in the clear, that it was completely behind us, and now this . . . "Why are you telling me this?" I asked Harris carefully.
 
His motives, as usual, were baffling to me.

"I think you can help him.
 
Come into the station.
 
Give a new statement.
 
We can go over every word that creep said to you.
 
You remember all of those unsolved, violent rape cases in the county, the disappearances?
 
I think your attacker was our guy.
 
Help me fill in some blanks.
 
The more dangerous that bum looks, the more innocent your boyfriend will be."
 

I was wringing my hands, looking at him uncertainly.
 
I really didn't want to go anywhere with Harris, but I wanted to help Dante more.
 
I felt myself caving.

"I know it's a pain the ass," Harris said with a friendly smile, "but it won't take long, and it might make all of the difference.
 
At least you get to ditch school for it."
 

I agreed to go to the station with him.

On the way out of school, we saw only one person as we walked through the halls to the exit.
   

Tiffany was at her locker, fishing something out.
 
She stopped and watched us as we passed her.
   

Harris was walking just in front of me, but I slowed and let him get farther ahead as we came even with her.
 

"If you see Dante, will you tell him that Harris took me out of school?
 
Tell him I need to talk to him as soon as possible."
 
I said the words in a quick jumble, not wanting Harris to hear.
 

Tiffany nodded solemnly, looking back and forth between my earnest face and Harris's retreating back.
 
"Will do," she said.
 
She looked sincere.

It was the most civil exchange we ever had.
 
And the most damaging.
 

I hurried to catch up to Harris before he realized I'd stopped to talk.
   

I didn't trust him, but apparently, I trusted him too much.
 

In my defense, I did not think he would do or could do what he did in broad daylight.
 

But I did get into his car without a fight.
 

CHAPTER
 

TWENTY-FOUR

"I started looking for you, not knowing how blind that was.
 
Lovers don't finally meet somewhere.
 
They're in each other all along."

~Rumi

PRESENT

SCARLETT

I woke up feeling rested and almost . . . peaceful.
 
Crying yourself to sleep apparently made for a good night's rest.
 

It didn't hurt that my head was pillowed tenderly against a familiar chest.
 
That I could hear the deep, throbbing beat of Dante's heart.
 
It was so comforting that I had myself half convinced I was still sleeping.
 

It was one thing to wake up with him, another to be comforted by it.
 

What strange new world was this?
 
   

I couldn't believe he was real, that
this
was.
 
That after all of the war we could have a moment of real peace.

Or that we were looking at trying to carve out some kind of a future together.
 

But was this even that?
 
Or was this just another temporary reprieve?
 

I didn't know and I didn't want to think about it.
 
Instead, I allowed myself a moment, a few, a dozen, a hundred, to revel in the arms of the only man who would ever own my heart.
 

His bare torso was warm, firm, and very real, but I ran my hands over him like he might disappear.

I could touch him now, and not as a way to hurt or wound.
 
My hand on his chest spoke of the ownership I had been denying myself for five rough years.
 

Five hopeless years.
 
Five hateful years.
 
Five lost years.
 

"Morning, angel."
 
His voice came out of his chest in a touchable rumble that spoke of deep affection.
 
He kissed the top of my head, his familiar hand stroking over my hair.
 

I shut my eyes, letting myself enjoy it, letting myself acknowledge just how much I
needed
it.
 

This would take some getting used to.
 
I was still afraid to even hope I might get the chance.
 

"Mm," I mumbled into his chest.
 
It didn't mean anything, just a general sound of contentment.
   

He shifted me onto my back, propping up on one elbow close to my side.
 

I touched his face.
 
Part of my mind was still in that fuzzy place between sleep and full cognizance.
 
"Are you real?" I whispered it like I was afraid someone else might hear the silly question.
 

He grinned, shifting closer.
 
His free hand grabbed one of mine, bringing it to his lips.
 
He placed a soft, open-mouthed kiss on my palm.
 
His eyes smiled as he dragged the hand down, cupping it over his very happy morning erection.
 
"Is that real enough for you?"
   

I glared at him.
 

He threw his head back and laughed.

His laugh was wonderful, touchable.
 
I set my hand to his throat just to feel closer to it.
 

His laughing eyes came back to mine, and his face sobered in one quick fall.
 
He touched my cheek.
 
"Jesus.
 
That look.
 
What are you trying to do to me here?"

I let my eyes answer that question.
 
With a groan, he leaned down and kissed me.
 
It was a tentative contact at first, his talented lips feeling at mine with utmost care, his own way of validating that
I
was real.

It was almost sweet and finished too quickly.
 

He started to pull back, but I stopped him by grabbing his face, crushing his mouth to mine.
 

The need came sudden and dark.
 
I had to have him.
 
Had to.
 
On me, in me.
 

I craved that most intimate connection, him in the deepest part of me, with ravenous simplicity.
 

When he pulled back again I let him, my breath coming short.
 
"Now."
 
It was a plea, an order, a curse—all in one.
       

"Well, if you insist," he muttered.
 
He was such a fake.
 
He'd lost his senses several thumping heartbeats earlier and we both knew it.
 

He descended on me again, mouth on my jaw, kissing down to my neck, over my collarbone, moving down.

He peeled off my oversized cat T-shirt, lips coming back to my bare skin.
 

When he sucked my nipples, my back arched off the bed, my toes curling in delight.
 
I was so primed that I thought he might bring me over with that contact alone, but he didn't linger there long, moving inexorably lower, and lower, nuzzling between my legs, eating me out like I was a feast and he was starved.
 

That made two of us.
 

When he'd—put a fork in me, done—finished me, he laid his cheek against my inner thigh, his drowning blue eyes aimed up the line of my body at mine, and managed to look winsome.

I shut my eyes and stroked his hair.
 
I was having a battle with myself, feeling too emotional, wanting to tamp it down, to reprimand the part of me that
lived
for this, that thought my entire reason for existing was wrapped up in it.
 

In the end, emotion won, aided by sensation.
 
He was licking his way up my stomach, nuzzling, kissing, touching everything with his fingertips like he would memorize me, though I knew he'd burned every detail of me into his brain a very long time ago.