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I kissed Luke then. I kissed
him. Like I hadn’t kissed him in more than a week – since before
London, since before Hollythwaite, since Barcelona: when we’d been
just a regular couple on a city break, wrapped up in each other.
Through the kiss I heard his sigh, the release of emotion. And then
he pulled me to him, onto his lap, and I kissed his lips, his jaw,
his collarbone, his shoulder, and he kissed my lips, my earlobe, my
neck, my –
‘No!’
My robe had slipped, exposing my back,
and I struggled off him and wrestled with the fabric entangled at my
waist.
He stood up. Put his hands on my
shoulders. Said my name with so much tenderness that I had to stop.
Had to look at him. The room was steamy, the glass doors occluded. No
one could see. Only him.
‘Trust me,’ he said.
I did.
Slowly, he turned me. I steeled myself
as he took it in, the brand I now wore. Non Serviam. I will
not serve. Emblazoned on my back in the form of angry, jagged scar
tissue.
When I felt his lips on the nape of my
neck, I jerked in shock. But his hands on my hips held me still as he
traced the path of the scar, one kiss at a time, from its very top to
its termination just above my bikini bottoms.
‘Beautiful,’ he said.
I turned to him. He smiled up at me.
Sinking down so that we were both
kneeling, I said, ‘How could you…?’
‘How could I not?’ was his answer.
‘I was there, Scarlett. I saw what you did for your mother. That
scar: it’s beautiful.’
‘But it’s a punishment, Luke.
Because I sinned. That’s not beautiful. It’s dark. Wrong.’
‘No! Don’t you say that. Trying to
save your mother – that could never be wrong. If I’d had the
chance, I’d have done it. My mum, my dad, Cara… I’d have saved
them all. And you. I would always save you.’
His eyes were glistening, and I lunged
for him and hugged him hard.
‘So stop hiding it from me,’ he
finished, his voice muffled in my hair. ‘Please. Because I love
that scar on you so goddam much.’
I nodded into his shoulder and he
squeezed me.
It was calm in our little haven. Still.
Warm. Nothing existed but Luke and me. We held each other for a long
time, drifting in the haze.
And then Luke sat back and said, ‘So,
you and me. We’re good?’
‘We’re good,’ I told him. Then I
frowned and added: ‘For now. You know, Gabe, the Fallen: I have no
idea what we’re getting into.’
‘Me either.’ He reached out a
finger and drew, in the condensation on the glass door, a little
lightbulb. ‘But whatever lies ahead,’ he said, ‘it has to be
better than living in the dark.’
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Author Bio
Megan Tayte
Once upon a time a little girl told her grandmother that when she
grew up she wanted to be a writer. Or a lollipop lady. Or a fairy
princess fireman. ‘Write, Megan,’ her grandmother advised. So
that’s what she did.Thirty-odd years later, Megan is a professional writer and published author by day, and an indie novelist by night. Her fiction – young adult romance with soul – recently earned her the SPR’s Independent Woman Author of the Year award.
Megan grew up in the Royal County, a hop, skip and a (very long) jump from Windsor Castle, but these days she makes her home in a village of Greater Manchester. She lives with her husband, a proud Scot who occasionally kicks back in a kilt; her son, a budding artist with the soul of a palaeontologist; and her baby daughter, a keen pan-and-spoon drummer who sings in her sleep. When she's not writing, you'll find her walking someplace green, reading by the fire, or creating carnage in the kitchen as she pursues her impossible dream: of baking something edible.
You can find Megan online at:
http://megantayte.com/
https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/13478850.Megan_Tayte
https://www.facebook.com/megantayte
https://twitter.com/megantayte
https://www.instagram.com/megantayte/
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