Earthquake. Aprilynne Pike
until his shoulders meet the door. His eyes widen and then focus on me.
“Tavia,” he murmurs. And it’s clear, he knows me.
He takes one step—not even a proper step, half a step—and his hand rises as though of its own accord. I’m still, stunned into paralysis even as my lungs force air in and out with a gasping, hissing sound, and adrenaline fills my veins in a rush that deafens me.
His fingertips brush my face so gently, as though I’ll break into a million pieces if he presses too hard. His eyes scan me, taking in every detail, until I feel like I’ve been stripped naked in front of him.
And I don’t mind.
Logan stands like a man transformed, even though his appearance hasn’t technically changed. His shoulders are straighter, his eyes more knowing. That face—suddenly it understands unspeakable wonders of the universe that normal humans simply can’t comprehend.
Then the world hits Play and his lips are on mine, his hands clutching, until I feel every part of him pressed against me. Hands, chest, hips, lips, teeth. With a growl he pushes my back against the wall and grabs at my hips, pulling me to him like he needs me closer now. “Becca,” he breathes in my ear, whispering my old name like a sacred memory before attacking my mouth again.
My brain is full of the chorus of women in my other lives singing with joy. Their strange music fills me, making every inch of my body tingle and glow. I know tomorrow I’ll have bruises from Logan’s rough, desperate handling, but I don’t care. I want it—all of it.
“I’m so sorry,” he whispers between kisses that trail down my neck, over my shoulder. He lifts my fingers to his mouth and kisses every fingertip, then rubs his face against my palms. “For everything I said. The way I treated you. I didn’t know,” he says, his voice gravelly now as his hands grip the waistband of my jeans.
I groan as his hands can’t resist and slip under the back of my shirt, his fingers skimming bare skin. Everything I ever wanted with anyone explodes into this one moment. “It’s okay,” I manage, as I lean against him, his mouth back on my neck. He rolls his hips against me. It’s like an ocean wave we can’t stop, crashing into us, sweeping us away with it.
We walk unsteadily backward—in the direction I hazily remember the bed sitting—we’re grasping at each other as our worlds collide in the most blissful crash I could ever imagine.
Logan lifts me, wraps my legs around his waist, and carries me the last few feet. He tosses me on the bed and kneels over me, reaching for the buttons on my jeans. Impatient with his fruitless fumbling, he tears his T-shirt up and over his head, and my whole body shakes at the sight of the familiar yet brand-new bare skin of his chest. He reaches for the bottom of my blouse, and as I raise my arms it suddenly seems to me that everything, every terrible, awful thing that has happened in the last month, was worth it.
The next few minutes are a blur of desperation as we learn each other all over again. It has that brilliant excitement of newness wrapped in the comfort of the commonplace. We say nothing as our bodies speak their own language; and even though I feel like I should savor this moment—take time to renew our friendship, our love—I can’t.
I look up into his leaf-green eyes above me, my hand clenching at his shoulders, and for the first time since the plane wreck, I feel free. I let go of everything. Of every fear and doubt, of tension and pain.
And in that moment I let my entire body fill with pure, unadulterated joy.
I’m so wrapped up in Logan I scarcely notice when the lights flicker and then die, plunging us into total darkness.
For a moment there’s silence, and then we both start to laugh. “Did we do that?” I ask, finally getting some control.
“I didn’t do it. Did you do it?”
“Bad timing, I guess.”
“Or extremely good timing,” Logan says, his lips brushing my neck.
A moment later there’s the glow of a candle that wasn’t there before.
“You made that!” I say with a gasp.
He raises one eyebrow, the expression somehow sultry in the dim light. “Of course I did,” he says, pressing a kiss against my brow. “I still want to look at you,” he says, a hint of a growl in his throat. “And kiss you, and touch you, and hold you.” I pull his face back down to mine, and it’s like the weird power outage never happened.
It’s only hours later, when exhaustion overtakes us both, that we slow down. Logan helps me into his discarded T-shirt and kisses my forehead one more time before blowing out the candle. Then he pulls me against him and breathes a long sigh, the kind that sounds like it’s been waiting two centuries to be released.
“We found each other,” I marvel, and even now I hardly believe it.
“You found me,” Logan whispers, kissing my forehead. “Fate needed a little help.”
It’s mere seconds before I hear Logan’s breathing slow, and he falls asleep, his arm draped over me. I’m near sleep myself, but I take a moment to revel in the last few hours in this silent, dark room. Every part of my body feels tender and new, like a butterfly emerging from its chrysalis for the first time. New, and perfect.
As perfect as I will ever be.
He’s looking at me when I wake up, and for half a second I wonder why his eyes aren’t blue.
Guilt stabs my chest as the memory of last night comes flooding back. I push visions of sky-blue eyes aside and smile at Logan.
My lover. My diligo.
“Good morning, I think. Lights finally came back on,” he whispers in his rough morning voice.
A voice I last heard over two hundred years ago. My mouth curls up at the thought.
“What?” he asks, running the tip of his nose up my cheek and making me feel very awake indeed.
“I haven’t seen you in a long time.”
He tosses his head back and laughs, and I realize I miss his long hair. It’s not a big deal. Hair grows. I, of all people, know that. He kisses me soundly and then leans on one elbow and looks down at me, my head still buried in the pillows. “So, Tavia? That’s a funny name.”
A giggle busts out in more of a snort. “My mom came up with it,” I say, a tiny pang making its way into my heart. “No one ever says it right.”
His eyes soften and he kisses me again, and we waste another half hour or so kissing and rolling about on the bed before Logan’s eyes grow serious. “We should probably talk,” he says.
I nod and sober up. I guess the honeymoon is over.
For a little while anyway.
Logan pulls the sheet off me, and I fight the urge to grab it back. Or at least cover the fact that all I’m wearing is underwear and his shirt. But he’s not looking at me that way. His eyes are serious—maybe even sad—as he pushes his T-shirt up around my ribs and looks at the scars from my surgeries. The huge staple-marked scar on my thigh is gone—compliments of the Curatoria med team—but there are plenty others to see. My trach scar, several small marks where ribs broke the skin, the remains of a lesion across my hips from the seat belt on the plane, that sort of thing. Enough that even in the darkness last night, he would have felt them.
“What happened to you?” he whispers, his voice so full of sympathy and anguish it makes tears of joy come to my eyes.
Joy that I found the person who feels this way about me. That we’re