Split(37)

He shrugs. “It’s no big deal.”

“It’s beautiful. She . . .” I swallow hard. “My momma would’ve loved it.”

To avoid looking like an emotional wreck, I stick to the task of finding the garbage and move to the small kitchen.

The cabinets are white and the countertops and backsplash are black and white checkered tile, like something out of the 1950s. But that’s not the most remarkable part.

Every single handle pull is different. From cupboards, to drawers, to glass-encased shelving, all of it is a mix of hardware. Wrought iron, gold, silver, and even ceramic, and all in the shape of something found in nature. A gold leaf, a silver sand dollar, bronze stick, some of them are even animals. There’s a fish on one, a bear on the other, and— A flash of turquoise catches my eye.

I squint. “Is that . . . Oh, Lucas.” At the far end of the kitchen is a small pantry and the door handle is something I’ve seen so many times before it’s practically haunted my dreams. “It’s her pendant.”

My mom had an amazing collection of Navajo jewelry, including large pieces that were weighted by enough silver and turquoise to sink a boat. As much as she loved them, she never wore them. She always said they’d make better decorations for houses than people and swore she’d put them to use here at the river house.

I run my fingertips along the smooth blue stone and silver sculpted in a horseshoe shape. “This is . . .” Too much. Too perfect. Too . . . her.

“Your dad gave it to me. Told me just to make sure it ended up somewhere.” Lucas’s voice is close; I must’ve been so lost I didn’t hear him move. “I tried the bedrooms, but then it’d be hidden. It was too small for the front door. Figured the kitchen was the best place for it to be seen.”

I nod and my vision swirls with tears. “She lived in the kitchen. It’s perfect—” I cough to clear the lump in my throat.

Times like this I wish I could cry, that I could release the pent-up emotions that are constantly hovering below the surface. And this . . . it’s beautiful and being in this space is overwhelming. It’s only a piece of jewelry turned into a doorknob but it reminds me of her life rather than her death. Everything about this place is like a snapshot from happier times. Before our family was touched with sickness and loss, a time when possibilities were endless.

Just like her, this place is beautiful and unfinished. The thought is so brilliantly sad that it brings me crashing to my knees . . .

Or it should’ve.

But Lucas catches me.

“Shyann?” The warmth of his strong arms wraps around me. His eyes, so dark and full of tenderness as if he can read my mind and feel my pain.

I can’t think of all the reasons why I shouldn’t be helplessly gripping his shirt, all the repercussions for allowing him to see this side of me. The side I’m always shoving back and covering with ironclad strength. The reason I ran and the reason I didn’t want to come home.

I’m weak.

I always have been. What most see as aggression is really a reflex to protect how f*cking pathetic I am.

Even now, the scent of spice and pine swirling my senses, my body pressed into the broad masculine chest of a man who’s shown me more compassion in these few minutes than four years with Trevor, something inside me shifts.

Heat blooms in my belly and I splay my hands on his stomach, finally releasing my death grip on his clothes. His abdomen flexes quickly, as if my touch delivers a physical burn. The air around us becomes alive with tension and I want to crush what little space is left between us. My lips tingle with the desire to taste his, to suck that full bottom lip into my mouth and see for myself if it’s as soft as it looks.

I shouldn’t. I know I shouldn’t, but every single reason why pales against the way he’s holding me as he loans me his strength.

My mouth goes dry as a new need flames bright and hungry. He stares down at me, his eyebrows pinched together and his lips parted. His pulse pounds beneath my palm, matching the race of my own.

He feels it too.

“Lucas . . .?” I wet my lips and panic flashes in his eyes. “Kiss me.”

“I . . .” He blinks, slow, heavy lids passing over the slate-colored orbs. “I can’t . . .”

My skin tingles with every whisper of his breath. “Please.”

His expression softens and turns sad as if he’s apologizing. Right when I think he’s going to deny me, he lowers his mouth to mine.

In a brush so featherlight I wonder if I imagined it, he kisses me. Just as I’m about to kiss him back, he pulls away. His breathing slows and his muscles grow tense.

Seconds pass in loaded silence.

He refocuses on me and I startle at his change in demeanor. He glares at me from beneath heavy eyelids, and his lips are set in a flat line. His once timid, almost terrified expression is replaced by something sinister. I lurch in his hold, but he only clutches me tighter.

“What are you—” I gasp as his hands grip my ass and I arch away from him.

Full lips lift into a crooked grin and he bares his teeth. “Women. Always out for something, aren’t you?”

I flinch at the frigid tone of his voice. All traces of the tenderness I’d felt before are gone. “I—”

He flexes his hips into mine, silencing me with the stab of his hard-on at my belly. “You like the effect you have, don’t you?” With two long strides he presses me to the wall, his hands fisting my flesh to the point of pain. “Don’t need to hear you say it. I can see it.” He licks his bottom lip and practically snarls. “He won’t give it to you.” He leans down and runs his teeth along my jaw, his breath hot at my ear, and bathes my skin in goose bumps. “But I will.”