Elect - Dyken Rachel Van (электронные книги бесплатно .txt) 📗

“Who says I’m leaving?”

“Your eyes,” she whispered. “You’re saying good-bye. Damn it, Why are you saying good-bye?”

I sighed, touching my forehead to hers. “Sweetheart, I’m only going away for a while, okay? Remember that. If you remember nothing else, remember that. I’m going away. But I’ll always be here.” I pressed my hand to her chest. “And when the time is right…” I kissed her lips and then grazed them with my fingers. “I’ll be right here, kissing you, loving you, being with you and only you.”

“Swear it.” Trace wrapped her arms around my neck. “Swear it or I swear I’ll hunt you down myself.”

Laughing, I kissed her nose. “I swear it.

“Good-bye.” Emotion clogged the back of my throat.

“Bye.” She closed her eyes and kissed me hard on the mouth.

“Good-bye, good-bye, good-bye,” I repeated over and over again as I lifted her shirt over her head and helped her pull off mine.

We didn’t speak.

I wasn’t sure I could say anything. I was afraid to ruin the magical moment that we were currently living in.

She knew.

I knew.

And we needed each other more than anything else in the world.

Just this once… after all… every man on death row gets one final wish, right?

I tugged her down onto the bed and hovered over her. Trace reached up and trailed her hands over her favorite tattoo. I closed my eyes. Her touch was almost like a burn, so powerful, so perfect.

Kissing her neck was my perfection, my last meal, my last drink, my last everything. I wanted to memorize the exact moment my lips touched her neck, the exact minute she screamed out my name.

The second she found her pleasure.

Her lips found mine again as our tongues twisted together, fighting, coaxing, tasting.

More clothes were discarded and then it was pure skin. Hot, soft skin pressed against all of me.

“Are you sure?” I whispered.

A tear streamed down her face as she nodded. “Yes.”

Maybe I shouldn’t have been that selfish. To take the one thing I knew she had to offer another man. But I wanted it. I wanted her and if I couldn’t have her forever, I at least wanted a part of her that would be no one else’s.

I wanted to hate Chase in that moment.

I wanted to hate him for being able to touch her in places I wouldn’t be able to. I despised that it would be his lips that kissed the part of her hips where her long legs met the rest of her body, where her soft curves invited and begged a man’s touch. Promising him nights of pleasure.

“I love you.” I gripped the headboard and looked down at her. “I love you so damn much.”

“I love you, too.” She arched beneath me and pulled me down to her.

We stayed in my room the rest of the night. I knew Chase assumed what was going on and was probably either drunk or just really pissed off.

At two a.m. I needed to go. I grabbed my stuff and the journal Trace had given me permission to use.

One final kiss on her shoulder, and I was out the door. I got into my car and started it.

Did I have the balls to do this?

No.

But my heart left me no other choice.

I sighed as the smell of Trace floated around me. I shouldn’t have done it. I should have allowed her to freely give her heart to someone else, because if things went badly, she’d forever hate me for stealing that one thing that some other man should have gotten.

A battle raged inside of me. I felt guilty and thankful at the same time. I didn’t want to be that guy. The one that pressured a girl into sleeping with him by saying lame crap like, “If this is our last night together… blah blah blah.” No, hell no. It was so much more than that. It was my own selfish need to know that for the rest of her life, she would remember me. I had this paralyzing need to mark her as mine—even though I knew in the end the odds weren’t in favor of us—but of them.

Girls always remembered things like that.

Their first kiss.

Their first time.

Only usually, good girls, girls like sweet innocent Trace, gave that first time to their husbands, and only them.

I wondered if she’d be thankful or upset.

I couldn’t find it in my heart to regret what I’d done, because I truly was hanging on to every ounce of love Trace gave me, to get through the night. To do what I had to do.

It was my death row.

My last sentence.

I prayed.

Maybe God truly was that forgiving, that after all the sin I’d committed in my life for my family, in the name of blood—he’d still be gracious enough to protect her while I knew I couldn’t.

The drive was short. As those drives typically are, the one time you want to dally, and all the lights are green and there’s no traffic.

Campus security was high as per my instructions. I unlocked the Space and let myself in. I couldn’t kill him, but there was something else I could do.

Chapter Twenty-nine Phoenix

The door handle turned. So this was it. I was going to die. I wish I could say I wasn’t terrified. Would it hurt? Would I even feel pain and fear? Or would it be over so fast that I’d just feel nothing but my body finally resting? Nixon walked into the light. He had a garbage bag in one hand and his gun in the other.

“Phoenix.” Nixon said my name slowly, purposefully. Aw shit, he’d come alone. Which meant I was going to get a hell of a lot more than a bullet to the head. Visions of knives, bloody knuckles, and syringes came to mind.

“Nixon.” I couldn’t help the shaking in my voice. I knew what was coming, I wasn’t totally fearless.

“I’m giving you one last chance to tell me the truth.”

“Never was really good with the whole honesty thing.” I smirked. “I think I’ll take my chances with death.”

“Damn it!” Nixon kicked the table next to me and then with a curse threw it over onto its side, causing dust to explode into the air. “Why is it,” he said, voice strained, “that out of all the shit we’ve been through—now’s the time you’ve decided to develop a conscience?”

I shrugged, trying to act indifferent.

Nixon gripped my shirt and pulled me to my feet then slapped me so hard across the face I felt it all the way down to my toenails. The sting throbbed as he pushed me backward, making the chair that was attached to me twist my arms in such a way that I’m surprised nothing broke.

I’d seen Nixon pissed and I’d seen him calm as hell when he was interrogating, but this side of Nixon? It was nothing short of desperation.

“I can’t,” he finally whispered under his breath. “I’m sorry, Phoenix. I know I promised you, but I can’t.”

With a final shake of his head he walked over to the exposed bathroom in the corner and began grabbing towels. He ran water into a large bucket. Seconds later he was dumping the bucket over my face, and for a second I thought he was going to waterlog me. It took me a few minutes to realize what he was actually doing—cleaning me up.

We in the family had always been strong Catholics, but never in my life had I ever understood the absolute humility of washing of a sinner’s feet—until Nixon began cleaning the wounds on my face.

Words wouldn’t form on my lips as he continued to clean my cuts. He moved to my hands next, wiping the mixture of dirt and blood. He didn’t say anything and I still wasn’t able to talk without losing my shit, so I sat.

Funny, when you’ve hit rock bottom, you never imagine someone may throw you a rope. But that’s what he was doing. Nixon looked into my watery pit of dispair, and rather than killing me inside it, he offered a life raft, one I didn’t deserve.

“So.” Nixon dipped the washcloth into the bucket and wiped my cheek one last time. “Someone will be here tomorrow to…”—he shrugged—“see you.”

“The guys,” I answered, finding my voice.

Nixon didn’t answer. He untied my hands and pulled fresh clothes out of the trash bag, tossing them at my face. “Put these on, then sit back down.”