Crescendo

“Show me you mean it,” I said solemnly.

He studied me a moment, then reached behind his neck and unclasped the plain silver chain he’d worn since the day I met him. I had no idea where the chain had come from, or the significance behind it, but I sensed it was important to him. It was the only piece of jewelry he wore, and he kept it tucked under his shirt, next to his skin. I’d never seen him take it off.

His hands slid to the nape of my neck, where he fastened the chain. The metal fell on my skin, still warm from him.

“I was given this when I was an archangel,” he said. “To help me discern truth from deception.”

I fingered it gently, in awe of its importance. “Does it still work?”

“Not for me.” He interlaced our fingers and turned my hand over to kiss my knuckles. “Your turn.”

I twisted a small copper ring off the middle finger of my left hand and held it out to him. A heart was hand- carved into the smooth underside of the ring.

Patch held the ring between his fingers, silently examining it.

“My dad gave it to me the week before he was killed,” I said.

Patch’s eyes flicked up. “I can’t take this.”

“It’s the most important thing in the world to me. I want you to have it.” I bent his fingers, folding them around the ring.

“Nora.” He hesitated. “I can’t take this.”

“Promise me you’ll keep it. Promise me nothing will ever come between us.” I held his eyes, refusing to let him turn away. “I don’t want to be without you. I don’t want this to ever end.”

Patch’s eyes were slate black, darker than a million secrets stacked on top of each other. He dropped his gaze to the ring in his hand, turning it over slowly.

“Swear you’ll never stop loving me,” I whispered.

Ever so slightly, he nodded.

I gripped his collar and pulled him against me, kissing him more fervently, sealing the promise between us. I locked my fingers between his, the sharp edge of the ring biting into our palms. Nothing I did seemed to bring me close enough to him, no amount of him was enough. The ring ground deeper into my hand, until I was certain it had broken skin. A blood promise.

When I thought my chest might collapse without air, I pulled away, resting my forehead against his. My eyes were shut, my breathing causing my shoulders to rise and fall. “I love you,” I murmured. “More than I think I should.”

I waited for him to answer, but instead his hold on me tightened, almost protectively. He turned his head toward the woods across the road.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

“I heard something.”

“That was me saying I love you,” I said, smiling as I traced his mouth with my finger.

I expected him to return the smile, but his eyes were still fixed on the trees, which cast shifting shadows as their branches nodded in the breeze.

“What’s out there?” I asked, following his gaze. “A coyote?”

“Something isn’t right.”

My blood chilled, and I slid off his lap. “You’re starting to scare me. Is it a bear?” We hadn’t seen bears in years, but the farmhouse was pushed out on the very edge of town, and bears were known to wander closer to town after hibernation, when they were hungry and searching for food.

“Turn the headlights on and honk the horn,” I said. Training my eyes on the woods, I watched for movement. My heart edged up a little, remembering the time my parents and I had watched from the farmhouse windows as a bear rocked our car, smelling food inside.

Behind me, the porch lights flashed. I didn’t need to turn back to know my mom was standing in the doorway, frowning and tapping her foot.

“What is it?” I asked Patch once more. “My mom’s coming out. Is she safe?”

He turned on the engine and put the Jeep in drive. “Go inside. There’s something I need to do.”

“Go inside? Are you kidding? What’s going on?”

“Nora!” my mom called, coming down the steps, her tone aggravated. She stopped five feet from the Jeep and motioned for me to lower the window.

“Patch?” I tried again.

“I’ll call you later.”

My mom hauled the door open. “Patch,” she acknowledged curtly.

“Blythe.” He gave a distracted nod.

She turned to me. “You’re four minutes late.”

“I was four minutes early yesterday.”

“Rollover minutes don’t work with curfews. Inside. Now.”

Not wanting to leave until Patch answered me, but not seeing much of a choice, I told him, “Call me.”

He nodded once, but the singular focus to his eyes told me his thoughts were elsewhere. As soon as I was out of the car and on solid ground, the Jeep revved forward, not wasting time accelerating. Wherever Patch was going, it was in a hurry.

“When I give you a curfew, I expect you to keep it,” Mom said.

“Four minutes late,” I said, my tone suggesting she might be overreacting.

That earned me a stare that had disapproval stamped all over it. “Last year your dad was killed. A couple months ago, you had your own brush with death. I think I’ve earned the right to be over-protective.” She walked stiffly back to the house, arms clamped over her chest.

Okay, I was an unfeeling, insensitive daughter. Point taken.

I turned my attention to the row of trees at the edge of the road opposite. Nothing looked out of the ordinary. I waited for a chill to warn me there was something back there, something I couldn’t see, but nothing felt off. A warm summer breeze rustled past, the sound of cicadas filling the air. If anything, the woods looked peaceful under the silver glow of moonlight.

Patch hadn’t seen anything in the woods. He’d turned away because I’d said three very big, very stupid words, which had gushed out before I could stop them. What had I been thinking? No. What was Patch thinking now? Had he driven off to escape responding? I was pretty sure I knew the answer. And I was pretty sure it explained why I was left staring at the back of his Jeep.

CHAPTER 2

FOR THE LAST ELEVEN SECONDS, I’D BEEN lying facedown, hugging my pillow over my head, trying to shut out Chuck Delaney’s traffic report from downtown Portland, which was coming through my alarm clock loud and clear. Likewise, I was trying to shut out the logical part of my brain, which shouted for me to get dressed, promising repercussions if I didn’t. But the pleasure-seeking part of my brain won out. It clung to my dream—or rather, the subject of my dream. He had wavy black hair and a killer smile. At this moment, he was sitting backward on his motorcycle and I was sitting facing forward, our knees touching. I curled my fingers into his shirt and pulled him in for a kiss.

In my dream, Patch felt it when I kissed him. Not only on an emotional level, but a real, physical touch. In my dream, he became more human than angel. Angels can’t feel physical sensation—I knew this—but in my dream, I wanted Patch to feel the soft, silky pressure of our lips connecting. I wanted him to feel my fingers pushing through his hair. I needed him to feel the thrilling and undeniable magnetic field pulling every molecule in his body toward mine.

Just like I did.

Patch ran his finger under the silver chain at my neck, his touch sending a shiver of pleasure rippling through me. “I love you,” he murmured.