"Because they're not a sign of weakness. You're not the fucking Terminator, Saxon. You're human. You have emotions. You're allowed to feel them, and you're allowed to show them, especially to me."
He swallows hard, and I can see him struggling to believe me. "I don't know how."
"You're doing it right now, you big sexy ninny." I laugh and pull him down so I can kiss away his tears—and then, as more fall, in a fit of silliness, I lick them.
He splutters, shocked. "What the fuck, Terra? Jesus. You weirdo."
I laugh. "Come back down here, dammit, I'm not done."
He refuses, so I lock my arms around his neck and leap up onto him, clinging to him with my thighs, and proceed to lick-attack his face. He cackles and tries to dodge, provoking me to try even harder until we're both laughing hysterically.
"What are you, a dog?" he says, tracing my cheekbone, tucking my flyaway, just-fucked, just-slept, crazy-ass hair behind my ear.
"Woof," I say, giggling, and darting in to lick at another tear, one I missed. "I'm not turned off, Saxon. That's my point. I see you struggling with your emotions. You were vulnerable with me, you told me deep, real, raw shit that fucking matters. That means something to me, dammit. But you're so…so lost in…forgive me for using a buzzword phrase, but toxic masculinity is the only way to put it. And it's not your fault. It's how you had to survive. But that's not your life anymore. You're not in the Cabal. You're not an assassin. It's okay, Saxon. It's okay to be vulnerable with me. And you know what? I'll go a step further—I expect it. I demand it. I've had it up to my eyeballs with big tough sexy men with all the personality of a brick wall. The fact that you trusted me enough to allow what you said past your mouth… that's big, Saxon. To me, at least. I'm not only not turned off or threatened by your display of emotion, I'm turned on by it. Emotionally. Fuck it—physically, too. Not like it makes me horny when you cry, I'm not that weird or fucked up. I just mean…shit, how do I put it? I just mean that your emotional vulnerability makes me feel close to you. And feeling close to you is…" my turn to swallow hard. "I want that. More than I can say."
"It's scary."
"I know."
"It's weird to think that we met yesterday."
"We've known each other forever,” I say. “We're just…catching up. People may think we're nuts. They’ll say you can't know a person that well in such a short time. Bullshit. I do know you. I know your soul. I see it. I see who you are, and I know you. Time is relative, right? I'm not gonna question how I feel, just because it's only been a matter of hours that we've technically known each other. My soul recognizes yours, and to be honest, I wasn't sure if I even believed in souls until you."
"As touching as this is," Camilla's dry, cold voice comes from behind us, "I've had word from my source that Jarrod is on the move. So, our opportunity to catch him at home has evaporated. You slept for nine hours, you know, and you've been in here fucking on my favorite couch for almost an hour."
Saxon doesn't set me down, doesn't turn to face her. "Sorry about your couch. I'll buy you a new one."
"Don’t bother. I fuck on it, too. It's perfect for fucking—that's why it's my favorite." There's a faint trace of amusement in her voice. "If you two are done making goo-goo eyes at each other, it's time you went after our little friend, Jarrod."
I wiggle out of his hold and stand up, adjusting my clothing.
Saxon glances down at me. "This might actually work in our favor." A frown. "I take it there's no convincing you to stay here, where you're safe?"
"Not a smidgin of a chance, buster. Number one, where you go, I go. Number two, his goons shot at me and my best friend on her wedding day, so I have a bone to pick with him. Number three, what if Jarrod and his Cabal goonies decide to come after Camilla for poaching their tech wizard? I won't be safe here. If I'm gonna get shot at, it's gonna be with you."
Camilla examines her French manicured nails. "She has a point. I do expect an attempt at retribution. It's part of why I'm hoping you can get Jarrod before then—I don't relish open war with the Cabal. Mainly because I don't get involved in fights I can't be sure I'll win."
Saxon takes my hand. "Give me his location. Or his route, or intended location, or whatever you have."
"And how many men do you need?"
Saxon shakes his head. "None. I'll handle it by myself." He glances at me. "Correction—we'll handle it ourselves."
"He travels heavily armed and heavily guarded."
"Obviously."
A stare-off ensues—Saxon wins.
"Fine," Camilla huffs. "Have it your way. But don't say I didn't warn you, and don't say I didn't offer my help."
"I just need the armored Range Rover and my bag of shit."
She waves a hand. "It's here. I had the blood cleaned out." She narrows her eyes at him. "You owe Anthony an apology."
Saxon just laughs. "Goodbye, Camilla. Be well."
A lackey leads us through a maze of low, narrow, dimly-lit corridors, down a flight of steps, and through a doorway that opens into an underground parking garage full of big black Cadillac SUVs, Suburbans, and Tahoes, as well as a Cadillac limousine, and a vintage Porsche 911. My eyes go to the latter—Dad always had a dream of getting his hands on one. Never happened, obviously.
