{18+ COMPLETE} For the past three years, Bren Hadaway has been preparing to die.
When he was sixteen, he watched his dad murder his mom. And ever since, he's been counting down the days until it was his turn to be at the end of a gun. And Bren has...
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My heart.
Quinton had filled it. And then he'd cracked it.
Like my skull.
And then there was him. Him—this boy whose breath was currently hitting the curve of my neck as he slept peacefully. An arm was thrown over my waist, a leg wrapped around my leg. Tucked into me, tucked into my heart.
My heart.
Bren had filled it. And then Quinton broke it again when he pulled that trigger.
And for a moment—that long, agonizing moment—I thought that was it. The crack of the gun, Bren falling to the ground, blood. For a moment, I thought that bullet had struck true, and the shards of my shattered heart would strike me too. And neither Bren nor I would survive.
For a moment, I was sucked down, drowning.
Drowning, drowning. Any flame, any fire that had been lit within me was no match for the dousing, no match for the seas that rose at the sight of Bren standing beneath the dingy light in a dive bar, telling me it would be okay. Telling me goodbye.
Drowning.
Because freedom was nothing without him. He was my freedom.
Because every fire needs a spark. And he was mine.
He'd fallen to the ground, and I'd drowned. But then his head flew up, that shaggy hair falling over brown eyes—brown eyes that found mine. And he breathed my name, and I breathed.
I glanced over at him now, his eyelids fluttering lightly as sleep gripped him. He almost always woke before me. This was new. His sharp jawline was slack, soft. His hair was a disaster that I loved. Those eyelashes that I envied curved gently upward. And the faint light of dawn seeped through wooden blinds, hitting Bren in a way that revealed all his vulnerabilities.
Not that I hadn't seen them before. Not that I hadn't seen them that night. In that moment.
I traced the edges of the bandage on his shoulder with my fingertips, noticing a bit of blood that had dried along the fringes. With a frown, I trailed my fingers up to his cheek, resting them there. I needed to get this boy to a doctor today. He shouldn't be bleeding still.
Bren nuzzled his head into my hand, his eyes staying firmly shut as he tilted his head back. It was hard to tell if he was actually awake or not, but I leaned over and brushed my lips over his.
Bren's mouth parted just barely beneath mine, and I kissed him again, a little harder.
And that was all it took. Bren flipped over me. He pushed me down into the mattress with his hard body, my cheek clutched by the palm of his hand, my lips being captured by his. His mouth devoured the sound of my startled gasp.
Apparently, he was awake—in more ways than one.
When he released my lips, he murmured, "Good morning, Madeline." His voice was groggy, his eyes only half-open, but everything else told me that Bren was alert.
