Total pages in book: 69
Estimated words: 67966 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 340(@200wpm)___ 272(@250wpm)___ 227(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 67966 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 340(@200wpm)___ 272(@250wpm)___ 227(@300wpm)
He wouldn’t feel monitored, wondering any minute if Axel was going to ask for his body in exchange for the plush accommodations.
Axel remembered all too well what it was like to be promised safety, only to be cornered, touched without consent, or pimped out.
Waylan’s room would be his sanctuary inside a sanctuary.
With his arms weighed down, he was almost at the back gate when he froze at the sound of voices.
The glow of the Jacuzzi caught his attention. He slowed, then pressed himself against the trellis of ivy so he wouldn’t disturb what he was seeing.
Underneath the cascading waterfall, Lincoln had that surly detective in his arms. The man’s head was thrown back, throat exposed, his arms locked around Lincoln as if he’d drown if he let go.
The detective’s needy moans carried across the frigid night air, raw and guttural, loud enough to stir heat in Axel’s own groin.
He shook his head, smiling. Lincoln always loved the hardest challenges. He’d mended hearts Axel never thought could be touched.
But he’d never kept them. He’d always healed them and let them go to find their true loves.
The detective was obviously different.
Axel crept past, leaving them to their moment. Lincoln had won his fight—it was time for him to win his.
Axel
101st Street, Skid Row
Virginia Beach Oceanfront
10:02 p.m.
The few blocks stretched long and lonely, the air growing colder and the taste more bitter the farther he walked.
That uneasy prickle worked its way up Axel’s spine again, like someone watching, something following…tracking his steps.
He glanced over his shoulder, but just like before, all he saw was blackness. He quickened his pace all the same.
By the time he reached Clarence’s tent, his pulse was thudding. He set his things down, took a few deep inhales, and let them out slowly.
“Where is he?” Axel demanded.
Clarence glanced up from arranging his things, a slight frown creasing his forehead.
“Down at the shore. Damn fool tried washing up in that freezing water.”
Axel swore softly. Of course he did. Waylan probably wanted to clean himself, to smell better—for him. He would risk pneumonia just to be presentable.
Axel pressed his palm to his chest.
“Oh, my strong heart,” he whispered. What kind of man would I be if I didn’t answer that courage?
He passed Clarence the supplies, and the older man smiled with his usual gratitude.
Axel lingered a bit, visiting with a few of the families nearby, but his focus kept tugging toward the shore. That pull in his chest, the same invisible tether connecting his and Waylan’s souls together.
He found Waylan easily…always would. He just followed the radiant beacon of Waylan’s aura until there he was, sitting hunched on the damp sand, shoulders bowed under too many layers, looking both monumental and broken.
Axel didn’t hesitate. He went right into his arms, burying himself against the larger man’s chest, shocking Waylan so thoroughly he stiffened.
“I missed you,” Axel murmured against the scratchy wool of his coat.
Waylan let out a sad, strangled chuckle, but his arms—hesitant, shaky—wrapped around him in return.
“How can you stand to touch me?” His voice was sandpaper.
Axel pulled back enough to meet those beautiful eyes.
“The question is…how can I stand not to?”
He swallowed, heart pounding, and asked the question that’d been burning on his tongue all day. “Are you coming with me?”
Waylan blinked. “What for?”
“To heal.”
Waylan’s height, broadness, his sheer presence towered over Axel, even slouched on the sand, and Axel loved it. Loved that his strong heart carried so much weight and yet still beat on.
“My home—Belladonna—it’s a haven for the broken,” Axel explained softly.
Waylan’s mouth twisted. “Plenty of broken people around here for you to choose from.”
“The brokenhearted,” Axel clarified, his voice a whisper against the ocean’s power. He leaned up and brushed his lips across Waylan’s cold, chapped mouth. “Please,” he begged against him.
Waylan’s amber-colored lashes fluttered closed.
“Just one night. And if you don’t want to stay, it’s only a few blocks to leave and come back. But if I can’t have you at Belladonna…I’ll be here every night and have you on Skid Row.”
He locked his gaze to Waylan’s, refusing to show an ounce of doubt.
And then—finally—he got a small nod.
Axel’s chest burst with light.
They returned to Clarence’s tent together, and Clarence’s gaze bounced back and forth between them before he grinned.
“Always knew you didn’t belong here, kid,” he told Waylan. “Always knew it was temporary. Don’t worry, son. Trust Axel. He’s one of the good ones.”
Waylan looked torn, but Axel held tight to his arm.
After spending a few more minutes with Clarence, they left and began the walk back to Thorn’s property.
Toward home.
Waylan
Waylan hadn’t wanted to follow. Not because Axel wasn’t trustworthy—nothing about him ever rang false—but because life had taught him not to trust.
Every man who ever promised him anything hadn’t followed through. Every hand that had reached out for him had eventually turned into a fist. His judgment of people was broken and faulty. He didn’t believe he could tell a saint from a sinner anymore.