Page 15 of Redeem

I remembered well the first time I had found the property, how I had known it was the perfect place. Even the old farmer I had purchased it from had tried to dissuade me. But after one look, I had known this was the place. Ciprian had been partially right.

And I had been partially honest.

I had seen the potential, knew that this place was worth far more than others who might look at it would see. They’d only see the house that sagged with age and neglect, the land that grew only weeds. But when I looked at it I saw something that could again be beautiful. Something that I would make beautiful.

That would be my life’s work. I’d make this place beautiful again and in return it would be my tomb.

In the years after my husband had died, I’d been aimless, moving from place to place when the mood struck me. But when I’d found this place, I’d found my purpose. I would restore it and then I’d stay here, living away from the world and the hurt that lived in it. Then, finally, when I was ready to be done with living, I’d end it.

Even thinking such a thing was insane, and I knew no one would understand. Which was why I had determined I would keep my plans to myself. Before, it wasn’t like there was a risk of telling anyone. There had been no one to tell, and that had comforted me.

But now, with him…

He asked a few well-placed questions, and I had been close to sharing. That wasn’t the worst of it. Those few sentences of conversation, the meal we had shared had done something that seemed impossible.

They had planted seeds of doubt.

Had made me wonder if there might be something more than being here, counting down the days until my life was over.

That I questioned something that I had been so certain of was unnerving. That he was the reason why was doubly so.

I kept my head down but shifted my eyes to look at him, wanting to figure out the puzzle that he was, or better, figure out how he had so easily made me question myself and my path.

When I looked at him, he looked back, his dark eyes fringed by beautiful lashes that gave his eyes a softness that wouldn’t have been there otherwise. I studied those eyes, tried to see past the keen awareness that lit them, tried to understand what was happening.

Maybe this was some elaborate game, something Ciprian—did I even know if that was his real name?—did for sport. Maybe he found damaged crazies like me and made us question what we believed.

I lifted my gaze to his forehead, watched a lock of dark hair lifted by the wind, and as I did I considered another thought, more chilling, more daunting.

Maybe it was me.

Maybe I was reacting this way because I was wrong.

I looked down at the sandy dirt, wiped my hand along my face, the nervous energy inside me demanding I do something to dispel it. The truth was, I didn’t know. Maybe it was him. Maybe it was me. I didn’t know, and not knowing was the worst thing of all.

This had to end.

I turned suddenly, intent on getting into the truck. The weight of his fingers on my elbow stilled me.

“Dana,” he said.

I froze, the shock of his touch, the far-too-pleasant thrill that ran through me at the sound of my name on his lips, the peculiar way he said it, the desire that combination stirred all holding me in place. The tiny part of my brain that could still reason told me to pull my arm away. I was powerless to do so. I didn’t want to break the connection with him, wanted more of it.

I could do nothing, couldn’t follow my brain, couldn’t follow my body, so I stayed where I was, stuck, torn, wanting him, fearful that I needed him, but unable to act.

Ciprian wasn’t stuck.

He kept his hand on my elbow as he stepped closer, moving silently, gracefully, until he stood directly in front of me, close enough that his huge form blocked the sun. Close enough that I could see the faint lines around his eyes, the dark stubble on his cheeks, the way his scar was puckered and looked smooth to the touch.

Still, I couldn’t move, and I didn’t dare risk looking up to meet his eyes. His thick fingers on my skin, the warmth that flowed from his body, his woodsy masculine scent all had me teetering, but if I looked into his eyes, I would fall.

Almost did when he lifted his free hand to graze my jaw. His rough fingertips against my skin made me shiver, set off a pulse that traveled through my body and settled deep in my core, leaving me achy with need. I’d never been that, had never felt arousal this deeply, especially from a simple touch.

My lids drooped, and my breath came out in a sharp pant that I was sure gave away what I was feeling. I wanted to lean into that hand, feel his fingers caress me again, caress me everywhere. When he tightened his hand against my cheek, cupping my jaw firmly, but tenderly, my knees went weak. I lifted my lids when he pulled his hand away and dropped my elbow, instantly missing the contact. I blinked, confused for a moment until I realized his mouth was moving.

“What?” I said, my voice sounding distant and far-off, my wonder in my words.

“I’m sorry,” he repeated.