All for You (Paris Nights #1)(34)

“I’m sorry.” Her hands did reach out of their own volition and pet down over his biceps, tentatively, a thief stealing the texture of those muscled arms to carry away with her in her palms. “I didn’t mean that, exactly.”

“Then what did you mean?” This deep vibration of anger.

“I just—” She pushed a hand across her stupid streaming eyes. Her voice dropped to a whisper. “I just—I really loved you, Joss. Just the way you were. You made me—happy. To know I might see you that day.”

“Célie.” His hand gripped the edge of the bench until she thought he’d break it on the metal. He pulled himself a taut five centimeters closer to her. “Do you think I didn’t know you had a crush on me?”

She gave a little gasp.

“Of course I did. It’s not like you had a lot of other options for halfway decent guys there. But you deserved better.”

She stared straight into his face, only a forearm’s length from hers, his eyes blazing.


He thrust himself back and to his feet. “So I got that for you.” He gestured to himself, a slashing, angry indication of his body. “Better.”

Célie stuffed her arm into her mouth—still clad in the heavy-duty protective leather that she wore for riding on her moped—and buried her primal scream as deep in her throat as she could.

The woman reading a few benches down, who had ignored their sexed-up clinching as the normal backdrop to an evening in a Paris park, now looked around, frowning.

Célie pulled her self-imposed leather gag out of her mouth and made a little motion with her hand to indicate the woman didn’t need to worry. Then she tried taking deep breaths. She even closed her thumb and forefinger together into those circles she saw eccentric tourists do sometimes when meditating in the more tourist-central Paris parks. The circles didn’t help.

“I know I was just a stupid kid.” She folded her arms, as if that could protect her wounded middle. “And … weak. I know I was acting like a five-year-old who can’t handle her nightmares. But I used to hide between my wall and the bed almost every night, because the panic attacks were so bad, after you left.”

His eyes widened, and then his eyebrows drew together. “What were you afraid of?” His anger honed in on this new focus. “Who was threatening you?”

She shook her head. “I wasn’t afraid for me. Although,” she couldn’t help adding, “if anyone had threatened me, you put yourself out of range to be able to help for five years.”

His face blanked again. This hard blankness of a man who’d learned blank from a merciless military.

She pushed her hands across her face, trying to clear away the wetness. “I was afraid for you.” And, in a whisper, “God, I was so afraid.”

He stepped forward and just wrapped her up, pulling her up and in for a strong, firm hug against his body. She could still feel the hardness of anger in him, but he didn’t let it leak into the pressure of his hug. Or maybe his body was just always that hard now, anger or not. “You don’t have to be afraid anymore.” His voice vibrated under her ear against his chest. “I’m here now. I’ve got you. I’m sorry, Célie.”

She tilted her head back. “I taught myself how to be brave. I conquered those nightmares myself. I don’t need you anymore.”

Pain shocked across his face before the blankness caught up and hid it. He started to drop his arms.

She grabbed onto his shirt with both fists. “Please don’t let go!”

He hesitated, staring down at her.

“Please don’t,” she whispered, holding on tight enough to rip the shirt if he tried.

His arms slowly settled back into that firm hold.

“Please don’t,” she whispered again, letting her head rest on his chest.

He didn’t.

He didn’t, and he didn’t, and he still didn’t.

No matter how much she had said to drive him away, he didn’t abandon her, cold and alone, for such a long time, that the skyline of Paris stretching out below them slowly turned pink, and her body slowly started to relax into his. As if her body had latched on to this absurd, ridiculous optimism that someday, she might be able to trust him again with her.





Chapter 13


He was kind of a bastard, Joss thought.

No, he really was a hopeless bastard, no kind of about it.

Because all he could think about was how much he would like to turn this hug into something else.

It was driving him absolutely out of his mind.

Five f*cking years he’d been fantasizing about Célie. No, who was he kidding, longer than that—back when she was a damn teenager and he was supposed to be her brother’s friend, the guy who looked out for her, he’d been fantasizing about her. She was the only reason he’d put up with Ludo as long as he had.

One of the worst duties during Legionnaire training was guard duty. Everybody hated that one. It was nothing like actual, practical guard duty later. No, two solid hours you had to stand without moving a single damn muscle, which felt like two days. Two years, sometimes. You’d be ready to kill your relief by the time he showed up, because you were so convinced he was late, but he never was. (The relief engagé knew better, knew somebody might really beat the crap out of him if he was even five minutes late.)