To the Stars (Thatch #2)(62)

“Come in, hurry,” she said, and stepped back. Once I was inside, she shut and locked the door and flung herself into my arms.

I pulled back enough that I could tilt her head up using my thumb under her jaw. “Babe, I need you to tell me where he is.”

Her eyes were still wet with tears, but they weren’t falling anymore. “He’s at work,” she said in a confused tone.

“Who texted me?”

“I . . . did.” She whispered the last word. She said my name, but I couldn’t respond to her. I couldn’t speak. I was shaking so hard I was afraid I was going to break her, and I knew I needed to let go of her before I hurt her—hurt her more than he already had.

“What . . . the f*ck . . . is that?” I asked in a dark tone, my eyes stayed locked on her slim throat.

I didn’t have to be watching her face to know when she realized what I was seeing. Her body beneath my arm locked up and she muttered, “Oh God.”

“I will kill him. I’m going to kill him, I swear to God I will.”

“No, I-I-I . . .” she stuttered, then flew away from me. I only let her go because I was terrified of hurting her more.

Harlow took off across the entryway and living room, and down a hall with me not far behind her. I followed her into her bedroom and slowed to a walk when I got in there. I hated seeing the bed where he’d touched her, I hated being in their space. I wanted to take away every memory of him and replace it with memories of us. I looked up when Harlow came out of a closet with a light scarf in her hands—the same scarf she’d been wearing on Tuesday—and the sight made me growl.

I closed the distance between us and grabbed the filmy material to stop her as she began putting it on. “I’ve already seen it.”

“Please, let me put it on! You didn’t respond to me, I didn’t know you were going to show up. By the time you knocked on the door, I wasn’t thinking, I just rushed to answer it.”

My head jerked back. “Respond to you? Harlow, I called you as soon as you texted me; you didn’t answer. And why didn’t you use the phone I bought you?”

“I couldn’t!” she yelled. “He still has both of my phones, my car keys; he even took the house phones. He has everything! I texted you from my iPad. I’m still terrified that Collin will see it on my phone, but I needed to see you—please give it back!” she begged as she reached for the scarf.

“Why? So you can try to pretend he didn’t do this to you?” I seethed. “So you can hide that part of you away from me? You aren’t supposed to hide yourself from me, Harlow!”

“Well, what do you expect me to do when you’re looking at me like I’m broken?” she cried.

“I expect you to let me fix it!”

She flung an arm out in exasperation. “I’ve told you, you can’t. I can’t let you do anything!”

“You also can’t stop me from trying,” I said roughly. The words were a promise, not defiance, because I would fix this.

Taking the last step toward her, I grabbed her face in my hands as gently as possible and covered her mouth with mine. Her hands came up to cling to my shoulders, and soon she was giving me as much of her as I was giving. But it wasn’t enough, it never had been enough with Harlow, and I knew it never would be.

As gently as I could, I lifted her into my arms, and my face pinched in agony. She was so light—too light. I felt her spine in a way that wasn’t natural, and it killed me.

“Guest room,” she said between kisses. “All the way down the hall.”

I walked us out of their room and down the hall without ever breaking from our kiss again, and easily found the untouched guest room, which looked like it belonged in a magazine—as the rest of their house did. I gently laid Harlow on the bed and followed her down, but kept myself hovering over her. Not because I was worried about where this would lead or that we would go too fast . . . but because I was scared of crushing her.

As if she read my thoughts, she fisted my shirt like she had in the store and pulled my body closer to hers. “You aren’t going to hurt me,” she whispered against my lips.

I settled my hips against hers, only to lift back off to help her when she started tugging at my shirt. Instead of putting any weight back on her, I rested on my knees and planted my hands against the bed on either side of her head.

Slowly moving from her mouth, I trailed my lips along her jaw and down her throat in slow kisses. As much as I wanted to do the opposite, I forced my eyes to stay open and locked on her bruised throat as I did. I needed this; I needed to see what he’d done to her while I was trying to take it away.

I moved down her chest, and my fingers went to the buttons on her shirt—my mouth followed my hands down as the shirt opened a little wider. When the last button was undone, Harlow whimpered when I placed an openmouthed kiss just above her shorts, followed by a soft bite.

Sitting up on my knees, I pulled her up with me and shoved the shirt away from her chest and down her shoulders, but left it around her arms so they were locked behind her back as I bent to suck on her nipple through her bra.

“Knox,” she whispered, and her legs shifted between mine.

She struggled to move her arms, and I finally released them as I moved to give the same attention to her other breast. Her hands went to my head and pulled at my hair to bring my face up to hers. She crushed our mouths together and leaned back until we were lying down again.