Page 7 of Smoke

The pattern sounded uncomfortably similar to what had happened at Curtis Freight. Dad had pushed because backing down wasn't in his nature, and being shot clearly hadn't fixed that.

By the time we left, my threatening message had already disappeared into whatever network the Unholy Few used when they wanted information faster than official channels could provide it. I didn't ask how. I'd been married to a one-percenter long enough to know better than to demand a clean explanation for every useful answer.

Back at the house, Smoke checked the doors before hanging his cut over the kitchen chair. The day had left me restless, and the photograph on my phone made it impossible to tell myself Dad's danger had nothing to do with me.

I sat at the dining table while Smoke got water from the refrigerator. The scar near his wrist caught my attention again, one of several small changes I'd noticed.

"Five years is strange," I said.

He looked over, waiting for me to explain. "How?"

"I still know you're about to drink half that bottle without breathing, but I don't know where that scar came from."

Smoke glanced at his wrist. "Club shit. Couple years ago."

"Bad?"

"Looked worse than it was."

That was probably a lie, but it wasn't the point. I knew how he took his coffee, how his face changed when he was pissed and where he kept various guns in this house. I didn't know what had happened to him two years ago. The same had to be true in reverse.

"You ever wonder what my life looks like now?" I asked.

He stopped drinking. "More than I should."

The answer landed softly enough that I asked, "Were you ever tempted to call?"

He rested the bottle on the counter. "You told me not to."

"I know."

"Beth, I thought letting you go was the one thing I could do without making it worse."

It wasn't the full conversation we needed, but it was enough to expose the old truth without trying to solve it at the kitchen table. I stood because sitting still had become impossible and turned toward the sink.

Smoke moved closer behind me and stopped before touching me.

The restraint landed harder than it should have. The man I remembered from the end of our marriage often assumed he knew what I needed because once he had. The man behind me now waited.

I turned and reached for him.

This kiss had no surprise to hide behind. My hand closed around the front of his shirt, and when his mouth met mine, I knew exactly what I was choosing. Smoke's hand slid behind my neck while the other settled at my waist, gentle for only a few seconds before I pulled him closer and his restraint gave way.

The counter pressed into my hips as his mouth moved over mine, then down my jaw and throat. My hands went beneath his shirt, finding hard muscle and the rough edge of a scar near his ribs that hadn't been there when we were married.

I traced it once and looked up. "Another one?"

"Later."

Then he kissed me again, and I decided later was fine.

His hands moved beneath my shirt, warm over my stomach before sliding higher. Familiarity should've made it feel like a replay, but it didn't. My body had changed, so had his, and every remembered response came with something new underneath it.

Smoke pulled my shirt over my head and unclipped my bra. The way he looked at me made my breath catch, not because he stared like a man who hadn't seen a naked woman in five years, but because he hadn't seen me naked in five years.

His palm cupped my breast before his mouth closed around my nipple. I gripped his shoulders and let my head fall back as he sucked, first gently and then harder when I asked. When his hand reached the waistband of my jeans, he looked up rather than assuming memory gave him permission.

"Don't stop."