Unbeloved (Undeniable #4)(58)

While kissing the single tear sliding down her cheek, he had a fleeting thought that he should thank his traitorous uncle. After all, it was Yenny’s doing that had brought this about, brought Dorothy and him back together. This time, and for the first time with no secrets.

“I love you,” she whispered, turning her face, nuzzling her nose against his cheek. He turned to meet her and their mouths met. Slow kisses ensued, wet and soft, making him hungry for more, making his body twitch with the need to intensify this insatiable pull between them.

And goddamn it, he just wanted to be able to throw her off him, climb on top of her, and hammer the hell out of her.

You’re beautiful, D,” he said softly.

“I’m getting older,” she whispered, her smile suddenly waning.

He almost snorted, but reminded himself how insecure she’d always been and held his solemn expression. He’d dealt with her insecurities back then, and knew exactly how to deal with them now.

“Woman,” he said, slipping another finger inside her. “Quit your f*ckin’ nonsense.”

Then he kissed her before she could say another word.

He’d f*cked a lot of women since going nomad, all younger than her, and yet not one of them could hold a damn candle to the way he felt about her, the way he saw her.

So her skin wasn’t as smooth as it had once been, her breasts weren’t as high and her stomach not quite as tight. None of that mattered to him.

Dorothy was still herself, still beautiful, and she was still the lone woman on this earth who’d been able to give him any sense of comfort. She was the one woman who’d grounded him when he’d needed it most, who’d given him the one thing he’d thought he’d never have again: a flesh and blood family.

No matter how much she aged, when her hair turned white and her skin was a cascade of wrinkles, he’d find her beautiful, above all others, and love her still.

“I feel like we should be talking more,” she mumbled against his mouth, “but we’ve barely spoken, it seems like.”

He kissed her again, her mouth, each cheek, and then her pert little nose. “When the f*ck have we ever needed words?”

Because they hadn’t needed them, not back then and not now. Maybe a few would have come in handy toward the end there, and maybe getting to this point wouldn’t have been such a long, hard road, but it didn’t matter anymore because they were here. They’d both made it to the finish line.

And words weren’t f*cking needed.

Except when they were.

“D,” he whispered, removing his hands from her body. “We need to talk.”

Slowly, looking slightly dazed, her lips swollen from kissing and her skin reddened from his touches, she rolled off of him and onto her side.

“Hmm?” she murmured, nuzzling into his arm. As her hand slid over his stomach, her nails lightly grazing his skin, he closed his eyes, biting back a groan. He wanted to do this, do her, all night long, all week long. Hell, he wanted to make up for lost time and do this for a year straight.

But he didn’t have a year. He didn’t even have a month.

And if he didn’t tell her now, she’d hate him for it later. That wasn’t something he could live with.

Wrapping his arm around her back, he said, “There’s somethin’ you need to know, baby.”

“Deuce already told me everything,” she whispered, kissing his arm.

“No,” he said. “He didn’t.”

All at once her body language shifted from languid and soft to rigid and alert. Shifting off of him, she moved to a sitting position and pulled a pillow in front of her, covering herself and hugging it to her chest.

“What?” she asked, sounding wary.

It hurt. It was physically hurting Hawk to try to get the words out, because once he freed them, there would be no taking them back. The damage would be done and he’d spend his last few weeks with her trying to repair that damage instead of simply being together. It would be the elephant in the f*cking room, too momentous to ignore.

But even though he hated it, hated the very idea of hurting her, there had been enough secrets between them in the past. He didn’t want that to be who they were anymore.

“This shit with the Russians,” he said, his voice giving away the emotional strain he was feeling. “It’s . . . not over.”

Her eyes narrowed. “What do you mean, it’s not over?”

He took a deep breath, a blatant and unlikely show of emotion that surprised both himself and Dorothy.

“Hawk,” she said, her voice small and unusually high, a testament to her growing fear. “What’s going on? You’re scaring me.”

“There’s somethin’ I gotta do,” he said, reaching for her. Cupping her cheek, he smoothed his thumb across her bottom lip, trying to stop it from trembling. “Somethin’ you’re not gonna like.”





Chapter Eighteen


Life was made up of moments, big ones and little, the good and bad, dark and light. We never remembered the gray, the times in between, but instead only the moments that had the ability to transform us in some way, affect us so completely that the memory would be forever etched upon who we were, who we are, and who we would become.

My moments were many. Becoming pregnant at fifteen, married to a man I didn’t love at eighteen, falling in love for the first time while I was still married to a man who was also married.