Kierney Scott - Holding The Line

But her head needed answers. She had a million questions. Where were you? What happened? What was it like? How did they treat you? How did you get out?

Why did you leave me?

Would she go with her head or her heart? That was always the question when it came to Torres. She made the wrong choice last time and paid the price. She was still paying the price.

She closed her eyes and thought about the consequence. Her hands balled into tight fists.

Slowly she reached out and turned the handle.

She held her breath. Time slowed down until she was suspended in it like an ant caught in amber.

“Beth.” Torres’ deep voice surrounded her; she could physically feel it on her skin, warm and potent, reaching into every pore. She fought the temptation to close her eyes and give herself over to the sensation.

Torres stood up from the bench where he was sitting.

She forced herself to look at him and really see him, the man who had shattered her dreams. He looked different. His hair was long now. He always had short hair. When they first met he had a military cut but later when he joined Los Zetas he shaved his head. But now his hair was thick and long, tied at the base of his neck.

Even his clothes were different. He always wore T-shirts and jeans but now he was wearing a button-up shirt. He looked like he was on his way to a funeral or about to be arraigned. It wasn’t him. He was different. No doubt she looked different too. Older maybe, sadder…

Her gaze lowered to his broad shoulders: still strong and heavily muscled. That part was him. It was Torres, only different.

Tentatively she took a step forward. There was a raw and brutal beauty to him that inhabited a place where masculinity became intimidating. His features were too harsh to be handsome but too overpowering to be anything but. Quite simply he was the most attractive man she had ever met but she would never have the words to describe why.

She reached up and traced the scar that slashed the left side of his face from below his eye to the corner of his mouth. The skin was raised in two parallel lines. This was the face she loved. This was the face she tried to forget. The memories of the night he got the scar flooded back, the blood-soaked sheets: the way his presence had filled her bedroom. He had stepped between two gang members to prevent an attack and had been wounded in the process.

She swallowed hard against the lump in her throat.

“I cant…I just can’t…” Her knees threatened to buckle. It was too much.

Beth turned and ran.

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