Page 44 of One Last Stand
She grabbed his arm. “I didn’t want to leave you! I couldn’t say goodbye, okay? I’ve been . . . watching you. Making sure that . . . well, that this, today, didn’t happen. Except never did I think that Tomas might be the one to grab you, but . . . yeah, Ididfear something bad happening. But I also feared never—” Her voice dropped, so low it turned into a whisper. “Never seeing you again.”
No.He refused to be moved. His gaze hardened. “You walked away from me at least twice before, London. Laney. Whatever you want to call yourself.”
A flash of something flickered in her eyes. “Laney is not me. London is the real me?—”
“London is a nickname I gave you because of your accent,” he said quietly. “And because Delaney didn’t seem to fit with the fifteen-year-old tomboy I met at summer camp so many years ago. So I guess I’m to blame for all the subterfuge and lies.”
“No!” She closed her eyes, looked away.
Silence pulsed between them. She looked wrung out, her blonde hair in strings, and for a second, all he wanted to was reach out, pull her to himself. Hold her until everything was back to right and normal.
He balled his hands into fists, just kept breathing.
“Okay, I can see that there’s no fixing this.” She drew in a shuttered breath. “I should go.” She turned to leave.
And it was that—the final goodbye flashing in front of him, accompanied by a terrible rush of pain through his body—that made him grab her arm. Pull her back to him.
“No,” he said roughly, his eyes on hers.
“No?”
“No.” A beat, during which his gaze roamed her face. Her eyes widened, her mouth parted—and then he kissed her. Mostly impulse, but the vortex of everything—the pain, the horror, the regret, the disbelief, and the longing—ignited everything inside and simply took hold. He curled his hand behind her neck and . . . dove in. Perhaps rougher than he meant to, but it all poured out, right there, as he practically consumed her.
Maybe he’d scared her, because she put her hands on his arms. But then they slid around his waist and she pulled him to herself, tight, all in as she kissed him back.
All in, as if she, perhaps, had been waiting, longing for this moment also.
Oh, London.
She tasted of hot cocoa and smelled of shampoo and soap and fit as perfectly in his arms as he’d always imagined, and he didn’t have a prayer of slowing down. Of letting his common sense take over, of pulling them back to the just-friends cliffside they’d once navigated.
Not just friends ever—at least for him.
And when she softened her mouth and let it open, let him deepen his kiss, he thought—maybe not for her either.
London. Beautiful, brave, and amazing London.
Alive.
He groaned with the fresh memory of his grief and put his arm around her neck, his other around her waist, tightening his hold on her.I love you.The words hung in the back of his throat, clogged his chest.But the thought shook through him, heat encompassing his entire body as he slowed. He finally lifted his head, meeting her beautiful eyes. Because that was the answer to this entire thing, wasn’t it? He loved this woman, even if he realized that maybe he didn’t exactly know her.
But he would. Because he wasn’t going to lose her again, no matter what it cost him.
Her breath emerged a little uneven. “Oh,” she said. “Well. Um . . .”
“I should have done that a lot sooner.”
She caught her lower lip. “I have to go to Montelena. With Tomas.”
He stilled. And then he had to know. “Tomas—are you . . . He’s your ex-fiancé?—”
“It was part of the game. But I do need to go back and end this.”
He drew in a breath, then braced his hand on the wall behind her. Bent his head. “I know.” Then he pushed away, his eyes still on hers. “But like I said, you’re not going anywhere.”
Her mouth opened. Closed. She shook her head. “Shep?—”
“Not without me.”