Bait (Wake, #1)(104)

Blake had fallen asleep merely minutes after we came after the third round, which ended only a few minutes prior. It was almost light outside. She lay on her belly in the crook of my arm with one of hers stretched across my chest. I rubbed my hand up and down her side, her skin was velvet on my battered palms.

Every so often she'd startle, but only waking enough to squeeze me, letting herself know I was still here—I thought–and then she'd fall back into her slumber. It filled me with hope.

I watched the curtain move in the wind and it finally lulled me to sleep.

I was visited by the reoccurring dream I had often about Blake's wedding. In my dream, I stood at the altar with her and Grant.

It changed though. Sometimes I'm the priest. Sometimes I say their vows with them, like a third party. But it was always the three of us standing there. In this particular version, the priest asked Blake to kiss her husband and she kissed me.

When I woke up the next morning I didn't feel the dread I usually did. I felt like maybe she was going to pick me. As my eyes blinked open, the first thing I saw was the small tattoo she'd had done on the back of her neck.

She was rolled away from me and slept peacefully. Her side rose and fell like the tide. After we'd exhausted ourselves physically and emotionally last night, she'd swept her hair up into a messy bun on top of her head. Still held up with the elastic, her hair was just so that I could see the ink through the few wispy pieces that had slipped from the hold of the hair tie overnight.

The hook wasn't very big. I wondered how they'd even made the lines so fine and faint. It was delicate and not very noticeable at all. My initials stuck out—at least to me—plain as day. Knowing that she'd marked her beautiful skin with my brand did something inside me.

It made that possessive voice, which I always tried not to pay attention to, louder.

She is yours and her skin bares the mark that proves it.

Instinctively, I pulled her warm body flush against mine and I held her like that until she began to stir, waking up. Her body relaxed into mine and fit into every void my body left for hers. Her ass tucked into my hips, my legs were traced with her legs, one of her feet slipped in between my calves. The soft cool skin of her shoulders and back perfectly paired with the hot skin on my chest.

I had one arm under her and her head lay on it, her fingers woven into mine where they met. My free arm wrapped around her flat stomach, my hand almost reaching from one side to the other of her.

I felt her belly rumble. She was hungry and she'd lost a lot of weight since I'd last seen her body. Her hipbones were sharp, the definition of her ribs showed, her clavicle more distinct. She didn't look unhealthy, but for someone who worshiped food the way she did, it was a clear message she'd been going through something, too.

The thought of her being hungry, or ill, after recently losing my mother the way we did, lurched at my gut.

She needed to eat.

I said softly in her ear, “Good morning, Betty.” I put my lips on her shoulder and left them there. “Let me make you breakfast.”

She laughed a little, “What are you going to make me?”

“Pop-tarts.”

She stretched her arms above her head, and in her stretch her ass pressed deliciously into me. “What kind?” she said through a wake-up yawn.

“What does it matter? A Pop-tart is a Pop-tart.”

“So not true. Some Pop-Tarts are good, some aren't.” She rolled to face me. “So what kind do you have?”

“Maple and Strawberry, I think.”

“Okay, I'll let you make me breakfast then. I'll brew the coffee.” And she grinned.

“This is something new now, isn't it?”

Her eyes looked thoughtful. “This feels all new. A new day.” I grabbed her by the ass and lifted her to my stomach to lie on top of me.

“I like new days when they start like this.” I paired our foreheads. And she closed her eyes.

“Me, too.”

We made Pop-Tarts and coffee and sat outside. Blake cut up a melon that I'd brought in from the garden. It was a little foreign and a lot more natural than I thought it should be. Even after all of this time and everything, we still knew how to be Casey and Blake.

We remembered how to talk to each other. In a matter of an hour, it didn't even feel like we'd been apart.

I charged my phone and called my family to let them know I was still alive. They all sort of got the hint that I needed some space after I'd told my sister Morgan to, “leave me the f*ck alone for a while.”

It was rude and so I apologized when I finally reached her.

“I'm sorry I snapped at you the other day, Morg,” I said before we got off the phone. “I wanted some space, but I'm glad you wanted to be here for me.”

“It's okay. I know it’s hard. I just love you so much and I hate seeing you unhappy.” She started crying. “I don't want you to be alone.” Her heart was so big, so tender. My baby sister lived to help others.

“Hey now, don't cry. I'm not alone.” I looked at Blake on the patio through the big window, she was smelling one of the flowers. I didn't feel alone anyway.

“You're not. Who's there, Aly? Troy?” She sounded hopeful.

I couldn't lie to her. It wasn't my style. “Blake’s here.”