“I still won’t give the unkindness of others unnecessary space in my life. If I got angry every time someone insulted me, I’d spend my life that way, and I don’t want that for myself.” The pain and rage in his eyes were for her, she knew. All for her, and she stroked his cheek in thanks. “But I also don’t want to act as if cruelty toward me is acceptable and doesn’t merit pushback. So I’ll set boundaries and consequences, and we can talk those through ahead of time. Maybe if a fan is rude, we walk away immediately. If someone in the press says something offensive, we refuse to cooperate with their outlet in the future.”
Some of the vibrating tension in his frame eased, and his shoulders dropped.
But his lips were still pursed tight as he looked up at her, his disapproval more than evident. “Wren—”
“Alex.” She cupped his bristly cheek in her palm, the searing heat against her fingers mute evidence of his outrage. “Honey, please trust that I’ll advocate for myself. Please trust me, even though I know I’ve given you good reason not to.”
He closed his eyes and let out a shuddering breath. “You are the absolute worst.”
Suddenly he was tugging her closer, until she stood between his knees, their faces almost level. And she would have kissed him—she desperately wanted to kiss him—but he was still grumbling, in typical Alex Woodroe fashion.
“You complete, raging harpy.” His caressing fingers somewhat undercut the impact of his aggrieved glare, but only partially. “When you put it that way, there’s nothing I can do but agree, right? Because if I don’t, I’m saying I don’t trust you. And we both know I do, and always have. I mean, for fuck’s sake, I trust you so much, I tattooed your first words to me on my fucking forearm—”
She gasped, jerking in his grasp. “What?”
“—even though you dumped my ass in a goddamn hotel room. Which, to be fair, I maybe kinda deserved, but—”
She clapped a hand over his mouth. “Go back to the tattoo part, Woodroe.”
This time, she knew to expect it. His tongue swirled over her palm, and although the wet heat and sinuous motion arrowed straight between her legs, she only raised a brow.
“So demanding,” he complained when she removed her hand, but his mouth had curved into a smug, self-satisfied grin. “I stole that note you wrote to the B and B housekeeper and kept all the sticky notes you left for me at the house, so I had all the necessary words in your handwriting. And this morning, before I left for the airport, I had them tattooed on my forearm as a reminder.”
Try as she might to follow him, she was lost. “I don’t—I don’t understand.”
“I know who you are. The first thing you said to me.” His smile faded into solemnity, and his eyes were bright and earnest in the moonlight. “And you do. You know who I am, and you told me I was a good man. Since I trust you, that means it must be true. And now, if I doubt myself, I only have to look at my arm. For the rest of my life.”
Carefully, he pushed up the sleeve of his Henley and exposed his left inner forearm, now covered by some sort of clear, shiny bandage.
Beneath that protection lay her words. In her writing. Tattooed onto his body in what appeared to be green ink with a hint of blue, although it was hard to tell in the darkness.
She kicked out a leg, then waved an arm, and the lights illuminated overhead, and yes.
His tattoo was the exact color of her eyes.
She covered her own mouth with the back of her hand, but only managed to half stifle her sob.
He’d essentially branded her words on his skin. And he’d done it that morning, before she’d appeared at his door, even though she’d left him so abruptly and with no good explanation. He’d done it with no expectation of her ever seeing it. He’d done it because he believed in her more than she’d ever believed in herself.
The profound sweetness of his gesture racked through her in another sob, and he gathered her close with his right arm, until his shoulder absorbed her tears.
She sniffled. “Is—is that a soul mark?”
With a gentle hand against her wet cheek, he raised her face to his. Then he kissed her, trembling mouth to trembling mouth. She tasted saline and sweetness, saw entire beaches of rainbow glass behind her closed eyes, felt the warmth of her silk blanket in the curve of his lips against her own.
“I fucking love you, Wren, and you’re obviously my soulmate.” He leaned his forehead against hers. “Of course it’s a goddamn soul mark. Have I taught you nothing, you obtuse harpy?”