Wicked(79)

"Wait. What happened to him wasn't your fault."

"I knew better."

"How old were you when this happened? Sixteen? We didn't know jack shit at sixteen, Ren. What happened wasn't your fault."

"I didn't stop them from killing Noah."

"But you tried," I reasoned.

His heavy, tortured gaze swung in my direction. "Did I try hard enough? I'm not sure. And was I even supposed to try? I grew up knowing halflings had to be dealt with. There's no gray area there."

"No matter what, it wasn't something you did or didn't do. His death wasn't your fault." I reached over, wrapping my fingers around his forearm. "God knows, I understand what that kind of guilt feels like."

A flicker of understanding crossed his features. "You do?"

Realizing what I'd admitted, I quickly forged on. The last thing Ren needed to hear was how I actually was the cause of three people dying. "You don't need to carry that kind of guilt around, Ren. What happened was terrible, and there are a lot of things that could've been done differently, but I doubt it would've changed the outcome." I paused, wondering when was the last time I sounded so mature. "It's not your fault, Ren."

He searched my face carefully, and then he placed his hand over mine. "I don't ever want to be in that situation again."

My heart squeezed, forcing out a promise I knew I couldn't back up and had no control over. "You won't."

Ren was quiet for a moment, his stare locked onto mine with an intensity that caused my breath to quicken, and then he moved. Closing the distance between us, he kissed me.

The brush of his lips was the last thing I was expecting, but the sweet, almost shy way he did so snagged me. I opened to him, and his other hand settled at the nape of my neck. I kissed him back, still feeling a little out of my element when it came to doing this, but after a few moments, I wasn't thinking about whether or not I was doing it correctly. I wasn't capable of a lot of thought when all I could taste was him.

My heart rate sped up as he tugged me toward him. Sliding his hands to my upper arms, he lifted me onto his lap, my knees settling on either side of his hips. Never once did he break contact with my mouth, and well, that took talent.

I shouldn't be allowing this, but I was trembling and I wanted so much more. Every time he touched me, and with every brush of his lips, I was dragged under a little deeper, but I couldn't make myself stop. I was starved for this contact, the red-hot sting of pleasure and the breathless bliss that awaited.

I was starved for him.





Chapter Sixteen





Ren needed it—needed me. I could feel it in the way his hand trembled as he slid it over my hips to squeeze my bottom, and in the fierceness with which he kissed me. His hand gripped the back of my neck again, holding me in place, but I wasn't going anywhere. Behind the heat in his stare was such sadness it tugged at my heart, and I wanted to erase it, to take it away. I wanted to bring back that teasing, smiling Ren who excited and infuriated me.

I skimmed my hands down his chest, wrapping my fingers under the hem of his worn shirt. I tugged up and Ren pulled back. A moment passed and he asked, "What do you want, Ivy?"

My breaths were coming out fast and shallow. "Ren . . ."

He didn't respond. His eyes were a heated shade of green as he cupped my cheeks, smoothing his thumbs along my jaw as he tilted his head, kissing me once more. Our kisses were deep, slow, and it left me shaking and wanting so much more.

Pulling on his shirt again, I exposed a glimpse of his lower stomach. "I want to take your shirt off."

A semblance of a grin appeared. "Who am I to argue with that?"

As Ren lifted his arms, I took off his shirt, letting it fall beside us on the couch as I rocked back, getting my first really good look at Ren. He was . . . utterly breathtaking. His pecs were hard and his stomach a series of tight ridges that begged for me to touch and explore them. There was a faint trail of dark hair that started under his navel and disappeared below the band of his pants, but it was the sprawling artwork that encompassed his entire right arm and shoulder, the right pec and down the side of his body that blew my mind.

I knew what the tattoo was now, and I wanted to cry and lick every square inch of it. The vines were inked into his skin, forming endless knots, and those vines twisted together over his chest, where blood red poppies formed. There were dozens of them, up and down the side of his body, and mixed among the flowers were letters—a phrase that brought tears to my eyes.

Lest We Forget.

The flowers were a symbol of remembrance, of never forgetting a loved one. I knew those flowers were for his friend, and there was something incredibly honorable about the homage he paid with his body.