Flame was silent, and I knew he was absorbing those words. “I need you,” I repeated, but this time failed to hold back the tears that threatened to consume me.
“Maddie.” Flame reached for my hand. The moment our hands met, I felt a rush of warmth infuse my body. With Flame’s touch I breathed easier. I felt complete in a way I never had until I let my heart open to this man. “Don’t cry,” he begged.
I held on to his hand like a lifeline. Shifting closer, I absorbed his warmth and the smell of leather that always stuck to his skin. It was as comforting to me as the sound of a crackling fire on a cold night. “I am scared too,” I confessed. Flame searched my face. I knew he needed more. “You fear you will not be a good father. I fear I will not be a good mother.”
“You will,” he said, and I knew he believed it with all that he was.
“I had no parents that raised me. I was hurt from childhood, just like you.” I sniffed back my wrought emotions. “Some days I feel as though I will never be normal. Some days the memories of the past, of Brother Moses and how he hurt me, are so heavy that they consume me.” Flame shifted from sorrow to rage in a second. Just the mention of Brother Moses brought him so much anger he found it hard to contain. I pressed my palm to his cheek, and his erratic breathing calmed. “I do not say this to incite anger or to gain pity.” I pushed Flame’s hair back from his forehead. His eyes closed at my touch. It still floored me. Still overwhelmed me how much he trusted me. How much he loved me. Only I saw this Flame—my perfectly broken boy. “I wanted to tell you this, so you know that you are not alone.” I smiled as his hand squeezed mine in solidarity. “We are one and the same, you and I. Two halves of one soul. What you fear, I fear too. But I know, together, we can achieve whatever we wish… and I wish us to be the parents we never had.”
“I never want you to be scared.”
I pressed my forehead against his. “With you beside me, fear will never triumph.”
“I feel the flames again, Maddie. They’ve woken up. They get stronger every day.” Flame released my hand and, never taking his eyes off mine, placed his nails on his arm. “Every day, they tell me you will die. Now they tell me that the baby will die too. They tell me I will kill you. The flames I have in my blood will try to kill you.” Flame’s jaw clenched, and he dug his nails into his flesh, hissing and rolling his head back in pleasure. And it broke my heart. I had thought it shattered as I watched him on this hatch, reliving his brother dying in his arms. But this, seeing him back in this place… He fought this every day, I knew that. Right now, I could not stand watching him in such distress. With our bodies so close, I felt his arousal against my leg. The bloodletting caused this. Flame cut himself again, blood forming in small drops on his tattooed skin. He hissed and groaned, but his brow was pulled down and filled with tension. I knew why.
He needed me.
Moving my hand south, I took his length in my hand. Flame’s loud groan filled the room. Tears swam in my eyes as I began moving my hand back and forth, giving him the relief, I knew he craved. I would not let him be consumed by the flames he believed ran through his body. I would not see him in pain. Flame’s scratches became harder and more violent the faster I worked my hand. But I kept going. Took care of him until he threw his head back and roared out a guttural, agonized cry, as he spilled his release onto the ground between us. I bit my lip to keep from sobbing. His skin was slick with sweat, his arms bloodied from the pain he had forced upon himself. But in the aftermath, in mere minutes, Flame became sleepy. His hand remained in mine. I had held on to his hand throughout it all. He had held on to me.
“I’m sorry,” Flame apologized, his broken voice cutting through the silence.
“No,” I whispered.
“The flames… the flames burned too hot…” he murmured, his eyes heavy with exhaustion.
“Let us go to bed,” I suggested and waited for him to move. I would not leave him on this spot. Flame blinked up at me, and he was still the most beautiful man I had ever seen. It amazed me how he continued to steal my heart every single day. “You need sleep, baby. Let us sleep.” He opened his mouth as if he wanted to say something else. But words failed him. Taking his hand, I guided him to his feet. Flame followed me into the bedroom. He lay down and I lay before him. I clasped his hand and brought it to my mouth. “I love you.”
Flame did not respond at first, and then he said, “You’re not allowed to die.” His eyes closed, his mouth parted in slumber, but his words replayed in my head like a twister. You’re not allowed to die…
I stayed absolutely still, holding his hand as his breathing evened out with sleep. I surveyed his body. My attention fixed itself on his arm, now spattered with freshly drawn blood. Releasing my hand from his, I silently moved from the bed and retrieved a washcloth. Careful not to wake him, I wiped the cloth along his arm, cleansing his blood and washing the evidence of his pain away. I cleaned his stomach and his thighs, and then I paused, just watching the peaceful sleep he was now in. My chest tightened. I ran my hand through his dark hair. “I need you with me,” I confessed to no one but myself. “I cannot do this without you, baby.”
I covered Flame with the comforter, then went into the living room and mopped up the mess that had been made mere moments before. As I was heading into the bedroom, the front door opened, and Asher stumbled through. I smelled the alcohol before he even came into the light. For the second time tonight, my heart cried for a Cade brother.
“Asher,” I said quietly as he moved to the kitchen.
His bloodshot eyes lifted and tried to focus on me. He smelled of tobacco too. “Madds,” he slurred and walked toward his room.
I wanted to talk to him. I wanted him to talk to me. I knew that in this inebriated state it was pointless. But the dark rings below his eyes, his messy black hair… Asher was the living embodiment of pain and grief. Where Flame did not show it in his expression, Asher told the story of his loss and guilt in his every feature. Asher and Flame may have been two very different people, but they both were consumed by their guilt and sins until it became the very essence of who they were.
Seeing Asher in this state, I could not leave him. Just as he reached the door to his room, I said, “Asher?”
His shoulders tensed under his leather jacket. He eventually turned to look at me. “What?” he snapped, fire and rebellion replacing the sorrow in his eyes. But the depth of pain on his face shredded my heart.
I walked up to him. Asher was a statue—as tall as Flame, and with the same dark eyes and hair. I imagined this to be exactly what Flame had looked like when he was the same age and the image pressed another bruise on my heart. I reached for his hand and gently squeezed his fingers. Asher’s lips tightened. I thought he would pull away, but, surprising me, he held on.
He held on so tightly.
“You are loved.” I wanted to heal him. I wanted to see again the boy who had never seen his best friend die while saving his life. The sweet boy who blushed when anyone talked to him, the boy with the smile that would win over even the most walled of hearts. I believed he was still in there somewhere, hidden under layers of pain. I believed that, one day, if we could peel back those layers, we would see him again. Inching closer, I placed my hand on his cheek. His breathing hitched at the contact. I was not sure if he knew it, but he leaned into my palm, seeking comfort. “You are loved. You are so very, very loved.”