Shadowburn (2)

Chapter 27

She only knew they were gone because Thorn told her so--with intense irritation--right before he blocked his end of their link.

The rest of her focus--and after that, all of it--was on Andreas.

As before, he swept out an arm to clear the table of food and platters--once again knocking the dishes onto the floor and chairs--and laid Sin down on its surface.

There was something she'd wanted to say, had need to say--but it was lost in the maelstrom of desire and fire that Andreas built inside her. There wasn't room for anything but him. She didn't mind.

*****

They were on the floor again. Thankfully she'd managed to drag him in the opposite direction from the mess he'd made, so they had avoided getting covered in food. While she hadn't minded the cake and frosting, and wouldn't have cared if it was bacon or something else delicious, she wasn't overly fond of the idea of having vegetables and meat in her hair and on her skin.

She wasn't a pot roast.

He was lying on his stomach, head on his arms, and Sin curled into him, halfway laying across his back as her fingers absently roamed the skin and scars there. Most of them were harsh, angry lines, puckered and ropy against his smooth muscles.

She half wanted to ask about them, wanted to know the stories behind his scars--but he'd already told her that he wouldn't give them to her.

So she didn't ask.

But he made a wry sound as her fingers moved across his skin. "You have an unhealthy obsession with scars, Djin."

"Stories fascinate me," she said softly. "And scars tell the best ones."

He stiffened beneath her, and she cursed herself mentally. Once again, she'd said the wrong thing. He seemed to think there was nothing she could do that would push him away, but it felt like every time she opened her mouth his mood changed.

And she couldn't tell where he would be next, or why, or how to act on her desire to always make him smile.

"Not always," he said, his voice dark and thoughtful.

Depends on your definition, she thought but didn't say. She stopped tracing the scars, rolling so she was curled into his side, keeping her hands carefully to herself.

"I didn't mean for you to stop, Djin," he said softly.

She shrugged one shoulder. And she didn't know what to say, so she just kissed his shoulder and said nothing.

He sighed, and she rubbed her forehead against his shoulder because she didn't want him to be... whatever he was. Not when she was happy.

So she said, "It's okay." And she didn't know quite what she meant, whether it was okay that he wouldn't tell her his stories--even though she'd offered him hers--or if it was just... okay.

He turned then, rolling onto his side to face her. There was conflict in his eyes as he brushed her hair away from her face, leaving his hand there to caress her cheek. "I want to tell you, Djin, but I don't think I can."

She looked at him for a moment. She still didn't know what to say.

Long moments passed, and then he said, very, very softly, "I didn't keep them because I wanted their memories. I couldn't heal them." He turned again, this time so he was laying on his back, and stared at the ceiling.

"You don't have to tell me," she said, just as softly. Even though she wanted to know--she couldn't ask him to remember things he didn't want to remember.