Page 7 of Sins of Winter
“I’m serious. Even when you had those braces you made look like a rainbow, I thought you were too pretty for your own good," he confessed, his eyes never leaving mine. “But now, you’re fucking breathtaking, Winter.”
The weight of his words, combined with the softness of his touch, made my head spin. My breath caught, and the room around us seemed to blur. The way he was looking at me was almost tangible, a darkness that beckoned with an irresistible pull. It had always been there, lurking just beneath the surface. Now, it seemed more pronounced, more visceral. He was no longer hiding it, and some part of me reveled in the fact.
It transported me back to the very first time we met. His family had moved next door to mine, and in the span of six months he and I never spoke a word to one another. That all changed the day I accidentally kicked a soccer ball right into his face.
The impact was so forceful it bloodied his nose. Panic had seized me as I saw the blood streaming down, staining his T-shirt.
I leaped over the fence that separated our yards and raced over to stammer out apologies, clumsily trying to guide him to my house for first aid. Amidst the pain, and with blood all over his face, he looked at me with a boyish grin and said, “You know, you're really pretty.”
That moment had been the beginning of our friendship. We were practically attached at the hip from that day on. He had been a constant in my life, as fixed as the stars in the sky. Our families had been close too—as close as families could be without sharing a name.
As if sensing where my mind had gone, he expelled a heavy sigh and stepped back.
“I'm sorry,” he began, an unexpected amount of sincerity etched in those two words.
“How I left …it wasn't my choice. It was something I had no control over.”
His apology brought everything back with cutting clarity. The abrupt emptiness his absence left behind was something I’d never quite gotten over. It was mixed with an understanding that came with maturity, the knowledge that back then our lives were often steered by forces beyond our youthful comprehension or control.
“I know,” I replied, my voice softer than intended. “I always figured as much.”
There was a side of me that ached to unravel the mysteries he'd left in his wake—the unanswered questions that lingered like ghosts since the day he disappeared. His digital footprint had been wiped clean, his number lost to the void, as though he had been plucked from reality itself. Yet, another part of me hesitated, whispering caution against delving too deep. After all, there must have been a reason for such extremes.
His eyes slowly swept over my face. “I want you to know that I never forgot about our promise. Never.”
Swallowing the sudden dryness in my mouth, I wet my lips. “We made a lot of promises, Lucian.”
His gaze darkened, intensifying as he held me within his obsidian snare. “I plan to honor each and every one,” he declared, the timbre of his voice resonating with a conviction that sent shivers down my spine.
The thin scar on my palm throbbed—a physical echo of an oath we made as children, a promise carved in naivety and sealed with the trust only the innocence of youth could hold. It was a mark I had dismissed over the years, chalking it up to a foolish gesture of eternal friendship.
“We were just kids,” I countered, the words frail barriers against the tide of emotions threatening to overwhelm me.
His reply was immediate, definitive. “And now we’re not.” He moved closer, eliminating the last remaining space between us.
The intensity of whatever was happening left me feeling exposed, vulnerable, but at the same time, utterly entranced. I opened my mouth to speak, to question or voice my conflicted thoughts, but he made his move before I could say anything.
In a swift motion, he lifted my chin and leaned down, capturing my lips with his. It was a deep, searching kiss, full of pent-up longing and desire. I instinctively wrapped my arms around his neck, momentarily losing myself in the taste of him, the feel of his hands on my body. The heat of his kiss threatened to consume me, his lips expertly coaxing a response from mine.
Everything faded away—the laughter from the other room, the worries of the night, and the questions accumulating one after the other. Every inch of my being felt alive, buzzing with electricity.
A small voice in the back of my mind reminded me of the reality outside this room. I reluctantly pulled away, struggling to catch my breath. With a gentle but firm push, I placed a hand against his chest, the rhythmic beat of his heart pounding beneath my palm.
“We’re supposed to be talking,” I emphasized, trying to steer the torrent of my thoughts away from the magnetic pull of the moment and charged atmosphere between us. I wanted him so badly, I shifted to alleviate the ache between my thighs.
“You sure that’s what you want to do?”
“Mostly.”
He chuckled, a deep, rich sound, but the humor didn't quite reach his eyes. They remained dark and intent.
His thumb brushed along my jaw. “I can make you feel everything I want to say right now.”
“This—” I stopped short, the effects of alcohol catching up to me and clouding my thoughts.
He knew I wanted far more than a casual conversation. Trying to suppress the disoriented feelings, I managed to find my voice and some semblance of rationality.
“I need a minute. Can we go back?”