Chapter Thirty-One
Amelia
“I told you about my father,” Rory began.
“Yes. You said he bullied you because you were a reader and a writer, and not into the outdoors.” Which makes me so mad…
“Yeah. He thought I was some kind of freak. He didn’t understand why I wasn’t like Connor, who was always out walking in the hills or climbing something. And he tormented me for it. I still don’t really know why. I tried asking my mum once, but she just told me to be respectful of him. I still resent her for that, for not defending me. The only one who did defend me was my literature teacher, Mrs. MacDougall.”
“She was the one who believed in your writing and wanted you to turn your life around?”
“I’m impressed you remembered all that.”
“I remember everything you’ve said,” I replied. Then cringed as I realized how that sounded. “I mean, I—”
“I remember everything you’ve said, too, Amelia,” he interrupted, his breath warm against my cheek. “From the very first day.”
A thrill ran through me at his words, said without hesitation, without embarrassment. “Anyway, you were saying?”
“When I was fifteen, before…everything, Mrs. Mac entered my short story in a school-wide contest, and I won. My father was furious with her for encouraging my writing, and they had words at my brother Connor’s secondary school graduation ceremony. Her husband, Captain MacDougall—a man I wished was my father, stood up to my father, and then told me I was welcome at their house anytime. Well, Dad took particular offense to that—like he had to prove himself, now that others knew he was a bastard. So, the weekend after Connor’s graduation, he took the two of us to Skye to hike.”
That sounded like a recipe for disaster, but I kept my mouth shut and let him talk.
“The weather had been dodgy all weekend, with rainstorms that came out of nowhere—like you’ve experienced this week. It made the paths muddy and the hills treacherous. But Dad didn’t care. We did the Quiraing, which was miserable in the wind and rain, as you might imagine.”
“That was where I nearly got blown off my feet on the second day?” Yeah, that place was no joke, even without a storm.
“Aye, where you almost dropped your phone. The next day we hiked up Glen Sligachan, as you and I did earlier today. And he was just relentless, taunting me for being too slow on a hill, or being hesitant about crossing a stream or bog. Connor kept telling him to stop, but Dad didn’t listen. He never did.
“We were on the path through the glen, and were just passing Bla Bheinn, the mountain we saw yesterday. The sun was out, and the mountain was right there, and I thought, fuck it, I’m going to climb it. And once I’ve shown him I can do it, even though I don’t want to, he won’t have any reason to bully me anymore, and I won’t have to go out hiking with him again.”
He couldn’t even look at Bla Bheinn yesterday, so what did that mean?
“So, when Dad and Connor left the trail for a pee, I started up Bla Bheinn. I could hear Dad yelling at me to come back, that I was an idiot for going off by myself—and then he said it didn’t matter—I’d chicken out anyway. And I heard Connor shouting for me to wait for him. But if Connor helped me, it would just prove Dad’s point that I wasn’t ‘man enough’ to do it myself, so I kept going.
“It was harder than I expected. There’s a false summit, and then you have to scramble down the rocks and then up again to reach the real summit. I finally made it to the top, and I was so proud of myself. And it had been more fun than I’d expected it to be. But then, the mist came up out of nowhere, and within seconds I couldn’t see anything. It was like being smothered with a blanket. I couldn’t see the edge, so I was afraid to move, afraid I’d fall. I started to panic.”
Rory’s breathing quickened, as if he was back there, atop the mountain in the fog. I squeezed his hand tighter, dread creeping up inside me.
“Then I heard Connor, calling for me. I shouted back that I was at the summit, and he told me he knew I could do it, that he was so proud of me. It was the most amazing feeling. I knew I’d never hear it from Dad, but I worshiped Connor, you know? He was my hero, my defender. My brother.”
I closed my eyes, as if I could block out his words. But I knew. Oh God, I knew.
“I told him I couldn’t see anything, and he told me to stay where I was, he was coming for me. I was freaking out, panicking, and he told me to breathe. ‘In through your nose—hold it—out through your mouth—hold it. And again.’ Over and over, he said it, trying to keep me calm until he could get there.”
That was what Rory had told me to do when I hurt my knee and couldn’t breathe from the pain.
“I found a boulder and just clung to it, terrified. And then the mist cleared for a moment, and there he was, so close. He smiled at me, kept his eyes on mine as he climbed. And then—”
He broke off, and I could feel him shaking. Oh God. Please don’t say any more.
“And he took another step, onto a rock. But…it was loose, and his foot slipped. He looked so surprised—he’d been so worried about me, he wasn’t watching his footing. I flung out my hand. His fingers grazed mine, but I wasn’t close enough, and my arms weren’t long enough, and…”
No, no, no…
“…and he fell,” Rory whispered, and my heart shattered. “God, he fell, and I was right there, and I couldn’t stop it, couldn’t reach him. And I just screamed and screamed and screamed…and my father finally got there, and I had no voice left. I could only point to a ledge about five meters down, where he lay there bleeding. And then my father screamed.”
Rory took a shuddering breath. I clutched his hand and waited for the rest of it.
“Connor never screamed. He just quietly tumbled down the hill and hit his head on a rock. And he…died. It wasn’t a fall that should have killed him. But that stupid fucking rock… We had to wait hours for Mountain Rescue to get there, and then I watched them go down to my brother and retrieve his body.”
My eyes filled with tears at the utter despair that radiated from him. What a senseless, horrific tragedy, all because a kid wanted to prove himself to a father who would never love him the way he loved his brother.
I raised up on my elbow and cupped the back of his head, bringing his face close to mine. “I’m so sorry.” There were tear tracks glistening on his cheeks, and I pressed my lips to them, tasting the salt of his grief and his guilt.
He took my shoulders in his hands, and I was sure he was going to set me away from him—
—but he crushed me to him and kissed me as though my lips held his redemption, his salvation.
I kissed him back. If I could be his salvation, I would be. I could be so much more, if he would only let me.
But for now, maybe I could take away some of his grief. His tongue traced the seam of my lips, and I opened for him, deepening the kiss. He dragged his mouth from mine to kiss my throat.
“Rory,” I murmured, my body coming alive at the touch of his lips on my heated skin. He froze, and then pulled away. “Rory?” I said again, this time a question.
“I…we can’t. Not like this.”
I cupped his face in my hands and looked into his eyes, wishing I could see them in the dark, knowing they’d be green with desire. His desire for me. “Yes, we can. Exactly like this.”
He took my hands in his. “Amelia, we can’t. I don’t want to take advantage of you, and that’s what this feels like.”
“Then let me make it feel like something else. I want you. Here and now. Let me take away some of your pain, just for a little while. And you can take away some of mine. It’s not taking advantage—we’ve both wanted this almost from the beginning. Whatever the reasons for not giving in to it don’t matter anymore.”
He made a sound of despair. “It feels so wrong after everything I just told you. But I…can’t fight it anymore. Make me forget, Amelia. Just for a little while.”
“I can do that,” I whispered, and pressed my mouth to his once more.
He kissed me back, his tongue sliding over mine, and I felt a tug in the pit of my belly—and lower.
He rolled me to my back and ran his hands down my sides, snagging the hems of my fleece and T-shirt and dragging them both over my head in one motion. I shivered as the cool air hit my skin, but then he covered me with his body, his warmth seeping into me as his lips trailed down my chest, and I wasn’t cold anymore.
His hands came up to caress my breasts through the fabric of my bra. “Which one is it?” he asked.
“What?”
“Which bra? The navy or the purple? It’s too dark to tell.”
At another time, it might have struck me as strange that he remembered my bra colors. But that time was not now. “Purple,” I gasped as his thumbs strummed over me.
He pressed his lips to the top of my right breast, then the left. “I’m picturing the way you looked in it, like a goddess,” he said in a low voice. “Now I’m picturing you without it.” His hands ran down my ribs and around my back to undo the clasp.
I delved my fingers into his hair and arched into him. The motion brought my lower body flush against his, and I sucked in a breath as I felt how much he wanted me.
He froze. “Did I hurt you? Your knee?”
“It’s fine.” It was sore, but I didn’t care. “Please don’t stop. Not this time.”
“No, not this time.” He dragged the straps of my bra down my arms and off. I dimly heard it hit the floor somewhere below. “I wish I could see you in the dark. I’ll have to look at you like a blind man would.”
He traced my breasts with his fingertips, slowly caressing every curve, until I shivered—and not from the cold. And then he did it again with his tongue.
My body was on fire. I needed to touch him, skin on skin.
“I need these off,” I hissed, shoving at my sweatpants. He took over, hooking his fingers in the waistband and slowly easing them down. He paused, realizing at the same moment I did that he’d snagged my panties as well. No more hesitation. I covered his hands with mine, and together we peeled my sweatpants and underwear down my legs. He tossed them somewhere, then ran his hands down the sides of my body as he had earlier, seeing with his fingers what he couldn’t see with his eyes.
He slipped his hands beneath my butt and lifted my lower body off the bunk so that my legs fell to either side of him, then began to slowly kiss his way down my belly.
And lower. Oh God, was he going to—? Yes. His tongue touched me, caressed me, over and over, until I was writhing in his hands, my body humming with anticipation and need.
“Rory!” All I could do was hold his head to me. It wasn’t enough. I wanted to touch him—needed to touch him. I tugged at his hair until he kissed his way back up my body—so goddamn slowly—to my mouth.
His hand skimmed up the inside of my thigh. His fingers dipped inside me, continuing where his mouth had left off. I kissed him desperately as I arched into his hand—seeking, wanting, needing—there.