Wolf's Bane (Monstrous Hearts #2)

Chapter Eleven

She shook her head, breathless by that point, arching to change the angle of his cock driving into her until it hit even deeper with every thrust. "I like that about you."

"I can tell."

His hands still had her arms pinned to the bed, but she relaxed against the pressure, the coiled spring of her heart easing as she matched his rhythm. She was always so hot, so sudden with her need. Writhing against him out of desperation. More, more... He was never too much, not for her. And he—he savored her, thrusting hard and slow to feel her body jolt against his, nuzzling his nose against hers so that her mouth panted against his. Her release was wracking, white-hot, and her voice sounded close to a howl as it filled the room.

Later, as he licked the salt of drying sweat from her throat and breasts, she tightened her legs around him to keep him close.

"Thank you," she mumbled, still caught up in the afterglow. "That grounded me, again."

A rumble of a laugh against her. "Not like I got nothing out of it, myself."

With her hands free again, she managed to lift one enough to stroke at his thick, dark hair, the other remaining limp by her head. Thoughts slipped back into her mind, calmer now. One breath, two, and then an idea rose from her haze, sharp and dangerous with its very newness. "I still have the letters she wrote me. They're in that moving box, now, but I kept them out of sight even before she died. At first they hurt too much to look at, and then later I never wanted to find out if they still held power over me."

"And now?" He tasted at the hollow of her throat, right where her pulse beat slow and steady despite the decision forming in her mind.

"I want to see them."

She pulled on his flannel shirt against the chill before dragging the cardboard box from its space in the closet. Colton remained easy in his skin, focused on lighting a fire to chase away the cold and shadows in the room. She settled on the floor, sitting close to the hearth so that he could watch if he cared to, and began sorting all that remained of her time spent with Magdalene. She moved cautiously, carefully, as if she handled poisoned gold or bloodstained diamonds. Precious things that had turned ghastly, preening things that had gone foul.

The notebooks and half-drafts were put into manila envelopes and then into the small safe where she kept all important papers; death often magnified an author's genius, and she didn't doubt that within a few years, people would come sniffing in hopes of releasing anything new that could be attached to Magdalene's name. The letters Magdalene had written to Indigo also went into the safe, sharing an envelope with the photo of the girl, herself.

Then Alice picked up the letters written to her, rubbing the edges with fingertips damp from nerves. Colton remained silent, gaze intent on her face as she shuffled them like cards, keeping them neatly folded up. Keeping the words written on them hidden from view. She didn't want to read them; she just wanted to find out how they felt in her hands. If she felt like the same girl, again, while holding them.

But they only felt like paper, and the faint smells of tobacco and ink no longer fascinated her with their hints of a life unknown to her. In fact, they only made her nose itch with the need to sneeze, and she dropped them into her lap in relief. No, these letters had lost all their power to bewitch. She knew that life of tormented words punctuated by cigarettes and wine, knew it and hated it.

Now she only wondered if she was bold enough to be rid of these last physical mementos of that life—permanently.

You might regret it, whispered the part of her mind that always doubted, always worried, always fretted. You might wish to look back on them years later, when they would no longer hurt to read.