“Whatever you’re about to say, don’t bother. I’ve heard it all from foster parents, bullshit therapists and the know-it-all shrink Warner made me see when I joined the team.”
“I’ve never really gotten on with therapists either,” I empathise. “My mum had multiple sclerosis. I was grown up when she passed away, but Tom convinced me to see a grief counsellor.”
“How’d that go?” Axel snickers.
“Didn’t quite work out.”
“Can’t talk your way out of some things.”
“But I can punch my way out of them?” I counter.
“Is that so crazy? I didn’t have to fight like you did, but after what happened, I sure wanted to.”
Studying his bee-stung lips and youthfully rounded face, it isn’t hard to imagine a younger version of Axel. The child embroiled in a tragedy and left to fend for himself.
“I know that feeling.”
He touches the tip of his index finger to my cheek, a crease between his brows. I can feel his pain-hardened callouses on my skin, the roughness causing tingles to spread.
“Maybe you can find a way to use all that anger,” he suggests.
“Like you have?”
His lips curl in a grin. “Exactly.”
“What are you suggesting?”
“Got an idea. May take some convincing.”
His fingertip circles the dips in my cheeks until he’s stroking along my jawline to my parted lips. Axel traces the outline of my mouth, pausing on my split lip, his pupils expanding wide.
Each reverent touch makes my pulse thrum with a feeling I haven’t experienced in a very long time. Something akin to want. Urgent need. Desire. Something I couldn’t allow myself before.
“Convincing who?” My whisper is barely audible.
Axel shifts, his head nearing mine. “Everyone.”
He’s close enough for his breath to swipe across my over-sensitised skin. The rich, earthy smell of coffee blends with his own unique scent—a perfect balance of tantalising musk and enticing spice.
Axel embodies danger. Threat. Calculating strength. Yet the playful curiosity pouring off him creates space for a different side. A partially concealed, vulnerable soul behind his jokes and brutality.
Our noses nudge, bodies lightly brushing on the carpet. The danger flickering in his eyes feels like it’s calling my name. Offering unconditional acceptance and recognition of what the anger that’s taken root inside me desires.
It desires acknowledgement. Release.
And he can see that clear as day.
“If you need to punch something again, I’ll happily volunteer my face. Free of charge.”
A shudder rolls over me. “How thoughtful.”
“What can I say? I’m a giver.”
“Can’t relate,” I reply quietly. “I’m a taker.”
And that’s exactly what I’m going to do.
The gap between us feels like leaping across a deep cavern without hope of reaching the other side. But for the life of me, I don’t care to examine the recklessness of doing exactly that.
