Confessions in the Dark (12 page)

“That's an understatement.”

“I wasn't trying to show him up or steal you away.”

The thought had scarcely entered her mind. It said more than she cared to admit that it hadn't—Grayson was handsome and well spoken, effortlessly charming in a way Cole had to work so hard to be. He'd been courteous and quietly flirtatious, and a couple of weeks ago, she would've been doodling his name in the margins of her notebooks. But not now.

He squeezed her hand. “You looked like you wanted to dance, and your date couldn't. That's all this is.”

Her brows ascended toward her hairline. “I'm not sure if I should be offended by that or not.”

“Not at all. Under different circumstances, we would be having a
very
different conversation right now.” His tone flashed dark for a fraction of a moment, suffusing with a low heat, and wow. Under different circumstances, she'd be having that same conversation with him in a heartbeat. “But,” he said, voice lightening as he led her into a slow circle in time to the beat, “you have an applicant in the family, and even if you didn't...” He glanced behind her, and she couldn't resist now any more than she'd been able to before.

Cole had made it to the door, but not the one she'd feared—the one that would take him out. Maybe to the street and maybe to a cab. Maybe someplace she couldn't follow. Instead, he'd headed toward a set of open French doors leading out onto a balcony.

And he stood there, silhouetted in moonlight, so alone and so beautiful she ached.

“Oh.” With a wet, shaky noise, she swallowed against the pull in her throat.

The corner of Grayson's mouth flickered upward, drawing her gaze back to him. “That's exactly why I'm not trying to steal you away.”

“I appreciate that.”

She appreciated his saying it, too. After all the times Cole had touched her only to pull away—after the kiss that ended before it had hardly begun—she'd started to worry this was all in her head. Cole was a lightning burst of intensity, jagged brilliance that blinded her every time it struck. He was seared into her vision now, and she wasn't the only one who could see it.

This line they'd been toeing at the edges of for weeks now—they had to either step across it or back away for real. She knew which she'd prefer, but it was time for him to decide.

And she was going to confront him about it. Tonight.

“I should—” She lifted her hand from Grayson's shoulder.

Only for a strong grasp to surround her wrist, returning it to where it was.

“Like I said.” His grin flickered. “You should let him stew. Come on.” The music shifted tempo, drifting into another song. “Dance with me.”

“I thought I just did.”

“That barely counted, and you know it.”

She did. She also knew that if Cole's expression had been miserable when she'd first walked off with this man, he'd be seething by now.

Maybe Grayson was right. Maybe she should let him see her enjoying herself with someone else for a little longer.

“All right,” she said, tilting her chin up.

His smile this time was unfettered, his eyes twinkling. He flexed his fingers at her waist, taking a firmer hand in leading her around the floor. “You're a beautiful, intelligent woman, Serena. Any man would be lucky to have you on his arm.”

They would.

She kept telling herself that as they danced—two more songs and then three. But when he cocked a brow and offered her a fourth, she shook her head. He let her go this time, and with a little bow of thanks, she took her leave.

Then with her shoulders straight, her head held high, she floated her way across the room. And toward a man whose eyes looked like the very darkest kind of storm.

F
uck.

Cole's stomach was a writhing mass of knots as he stood there, not quite in the room and not beyond it. The heat from within beat at his front while the cool night air buffeted him from behind, the music swirling with a looming sort of silence and leaving a cacophony inside his mind. A precipice, then, and he had but to take a single step to either side.

Or to wait.

Pale skin glowing in the dim light, hair golden, Serena approached him, and there was a new sort of stillness to her that only served to set the waiting pieces in him further on edge. The resolve to her gait made him quake.

The things this woman set into motion in him—the things he felt whenever she was near. They were foreign and familiar, a possessiveness he never thought he'd ever feel again. A hunger and a need, and not just for her body. He needed
her
.

And it was that that made him grip his crutches tighter. Take a single, torturous step back.

The fierce pang squeezing like a vise around his heart—the sick jealousy when she'd so much as looked at another man. His laughter hurt like a sob. The very signs of how he hungered were themselves the reasons he couldn't have her. He ruined everything he touched, and he wouldn't do that to her. Even if it meant never coming close to her again.

But with that same assuredness smoothing her gait, she pursued him, a relentless march that ate up the space and drove him farther back onto the balcony. A gust of wind blew through his hair, and the notes of yet another old jazz standard went muffled and low.

Then she was standing just where he had been, on that very same dividing line. She surged across it like it wasn't even there, inserting herself into his space and into his life.

His resistance crumpled. But whatever words she'd been about to say seemed to die on her lips.

He turned away.

With his heart echoing through his ribs, he made his way to the railing and looked over. They weren't particularly high off the ground—just a couple of stories. The city below pulsed, though, teeming with life, while up here, for just a moment, all was still.

Until Serena came to stand at his side. She was a silent presence in a clear and brilliant night. As he turned his head, she stole his breath from his lungs. God, she was beautiful.

And she was shaking.

It was nothing this time to shift his weight to one side, to lean his crutches against the railing. He shrugged off his jacket and held it out for her.

For what felt like eons, she stared at him. At long last, she turned to give him her back. His throat bobbed as she slipped her arms into the sleeves. He settled the fabric on her shoulders, her body swimming beneath those tailored lines, and his blood flashed hot.

“Serena.” Her name felt punched out of him, a breath pulled from his very lungs. He slid his hands down her arms. Just the tips of her fingers poked out from beneath his sleeves, but when he reached them, they were nimble and strong, grasping at his palms. She drew his arms around her until he was holding her, and it was all wrong. He was barely standing, off balance even without the heat of her spine pressed to her chest, even before the scent of her hair was in his lungs. He closed his eyes.
“Serena.”

“Dance with me?”

He shook his head. “I don't know if I can.”

“There's only one way to find out.”

She spun inside his arms, a slow half-circle that gave him every opportunity to pull back or push her away, but he didn't. Damn him—damn his soul and his heart and this whisper of life she'd breathed into him.

The music was faint, but the pulse of it hummed through the floor of the balcony, steady enough to sway to. He winced, putting too much weight on his bad leg, and what had he been thinking? But all she did was reach to the side. She handed him a single crutch. It was a near-physical pain to unwrap his arm from around her waist. But he could stand like this. He could hold her with what fraction of himself there was to give. He could hold himself up against the force of gravity and memory.

She lifted her face to his.

They were alone on this little balcony, in this tiny pocket of time and space, and she fit so perfectly against him. He dipped in closer, and her eyes fluttered, long lashes dark against the porcelain of her skin.

The music changed.

He pulled away like he'd been burned.

His knee screamed at him as loudly as his heart did, his skin that had been aching for contact for
years
.

But the last time he'd danced, it had been to this song. He couldn't breathe.

“Cole?”

He shook his head, throwing his free hand out in a warning. She couldn't touch him—he couldn't stand to have her near. He couldn't
do
this.

“Cole?” She said his name again, and it felt like bones snapping, like blood seeping out onto snow.

“No,” he breathed. The floor spun beneath his feet, and he listed wildly. She put a hand on his arm, and red washed across his vision. He flailed out, striking at nothing. He needed air, needed time, needed years. His hand connected with the metal strut of his other crutch and he got it under him, not seeing, barely hearing. His leg was a dense ache, but he surged across the floor. The door was right there. He just had to get through it, and everything would be fine; he'd be alone and fine and safe and
miserable
and—

And her voice rang out across the distance and the space. “Don't you
dare
walk away from me again.”

He lurched to a stop, everything going suddenly, shatteringly still. He'd heard those words before.

Frozen, he stood at the boundary between two worlds, seeing double, two women's voices echoing back and forth across the line.

That last night—he'd tried so hard not to let the anger that lived inside him take him over. He knew all the tricks. Disengage and walk away, but Helen had been hysterical. She'd stopped him, and he'd let her, damn it all.

It wasn't anger fueling him now, but it didn't matter.

“I can't,” he gritted out.

“You can't
what
? Jesus, Cole. You touch me and you walk away, and you act like you're dying when I dance with another guy, and then when I try—” Her throat made a wet, aching sound. “
You
can't. Maybe I can't, either. I can't keep
doing
this with you.”

“Then don't.”

If she walked away from him, then he wouldn't have to be the one to turn away from her. It would hurt him like only one thing in his life ever had before, but he'd let her go.

It'd be for the best.

But then she was so close. Her heat seeped through the thin fabric of his shirt, the searing brand of her palm at the base of his spine.

“I've been trying,” she said, and it came out small but fierce. “To get to know you. And you let me in in these little dribs and drabs. I think you want to give me the rest of it, too. I don't think you want me to go.”

It was the last thing he wanted in the world. Denial sat on his lips, but the lie was too much for him to bear. He kept his silence, biting down on his tongue until he tasted blood.

“So let me in.” She trailed her fingers up his spine, melting him another fraction with every inch she climbed.

“I don't know how.”

“I'll show you.”

She would, wouldn't she? With tender hands and gentle care, she'd open him up. She'd carve out room for herself in the frozen wasteland of his heart.

But the music was still playing, the hurt still too large and too impossible of a thing inside his chest.

He shook his head. With a hitching breath, she tore her hand away, but that only made it worse. Gripping his crutches tighter, he turned around. He met eyes that were shuttering, his chance evaporating.

So many times now, he had tried to push her away. It hadn't worked and hadn't worked. If anything, she'd only managed to work her way closer, and he didn't know how to let her go. But for her sake, he had to try. One last time. Only...

“Not here,” he said.

She lifted her gaze, and the hope there flayed him open.

“But when we get home...”

His breathing stuttered. “When we get home, I'll tell you everything.”

And if she was smart, she'd walk away from him for good.

Serena let out a heavy sigh. Exhausted, she stared out the window of the taxi, watching the city blocks go by. Just as it had on the way there, Cole's leg brushed hers, but the kind of tension it inspired in her now wasn't the same at all.

The push-pull and the back and forth, the hundreds of mixed signals he kept sending her had worn her down. She hadn't been lying when she'd told him she couldn't do this anymore. Forget the havoc he was wreaking on her heart. It was his fault they'd left the benefit early. Instead of focusing on Max, she'd let herself get distracted.

For so long, her missions in life had been clear. Take care of her family. Take care of her students and her friends. Taking care of a broken, beautiful man hadn't been part of the equation. She'd worked him in seamlessly enough until now, but if he was going to keep her from doing the things she needed to—if she was going to give and give and give and receive nothing from him in return...

She bit down on the inside of her cheek. That wasn't fair. Cole had gotten Max caught up on a full semester's worth of math in a handful of weeks. He was the reason she'd been able to go to that benefit in the first place and make what inroads she had. He'd given her these pieces of his story.

It never felt like enough, though.

So many times in her life, she'd tried to tell herself that the nods of appreciation and the words of thanks were all she needed. But they weren't. And this was even worse somehow.

Every time Cole pulled away, it was another stinging slap of rejection, but each one seemed to hurt him as much as they did her. She didn't understand it.

But she wanted to. She was going to. He'd promised to talk, and by God she was going to hold him to it.

When they pulled up outside their building, Cole insisted on paying the fare, and she let him. She frowned as she did, though. What a waste. Stone-cold sober, she slipped out of the cab and went around to Cole's side, wordlessly taking his crutches as he passed them over to her. Handing them back once he'd gotten to his feet.

The silence held as they made their way inside, all the way to the first-floor landing, where she paused. Maybe she should follow him to his apartment, but if this went badly...She didn't know if she could stand to hear him telling her to go again. Watching him leave her place wouldn't be much easier, but at least it seemed like something she could bear.

Taking a deep breath, she got her keys out and headed for her door. “I guess you'd better come in.” She made her tone firm, not brooking any argument. By some miracle, she didn't receive any. He followed her inside, letting her sweep through the space ahead of him, hanging up her keys and flicking on lights.

And then there wasn't anything else to do. Her fingers twitched, restless and empty. Maybe she should make some tea—offer him something to eat or to drink or—

Or she could quit it with the stalling already.

She turned to face him. He was standing in the middle of her living room, larger than life and so tall. So proud.

She swallowed hard. Clearly she was going to have to start this. “Have a seat.” She motioned toward the chair he'd all but fallen into that first day they'd met. When she'd found him sitting at the top of the stairs, his crutches strewn around him, pain etched into every line of his face. She glanced down at the reminder. “Your leg must be killing you.”

A low, awful laugh escaped his throat. “You have no idea.”

She didn't.

He made no move to take a seat, and her patience—something she'd always prided herself on having so much of—threatened to fail her.

God. What was it about this man? He made her crazy and delirious in turns, and she just wanted to wrap herself around him. She wanted him to
want
her to.

She crossed her arms in front of herself. The sleeves of his jacket bunched at her elbows and around her shoulders, making her feel even smaller and more helpless, and she didn't know what to do about it.

Except take it off.

The cool air on the bare skin of her arms was a shock after the warmth of his coat. The haze of his scent faded away, leaving her thoughts clearer. Her spine straighter.

“Here.” She offered the jacket to him, but he shook his head, and she draped it over the back of the chair instead. Crossing her arms again, she shivered. She was too cold and too exposed in this slip of a dress.

She'd
made
herself too exposed for him. Time and time again, and what did she expect but more silence? More charged glances and fiery touches that led to nowhere and nothing.

And he had promised her an explanation.

The thin, remaining thread of her patience snapped. “You said when we got home you'd tell me everything.” Looking him square in the eye, she lifted her chin in challenge. “So talk.”

Cole wanted to laugh. All the years he'd spent not talking, all the endless nights and wasted days trapped within the same four walls. He'd locked himself inside, and he'd locked his history in there with him. At some point he'd lost the key. He didn't know how to get it out.

And now this woman stood before him, this slip of a girl who was stronger than just about anyone he'd met in his life. Selfless and sweet and so damn forgiving when he disappointed her again and again. She was finally demanding answers, and she deserved them, too.

But Jesus Christ. Where the hell did he even start?

A hundred moments flashed across his vision as he weathered her stare. The tide of them threatened to sweep him away. He was a boy, palms skinned and glasses shattered against the pavement in a London alleyway. A young man trying so desperately to be
normal
for the woman who would come to bear his name.