Chapter Twenty-nine

THE next morning, Sylvia lay cradled against him in the large bed as she stared out the bedroom window, watching the pink streaks of sunrise cross the sky.

They’d moved into the bedroom sometime yesterday afternoon. They’d spent the rest of the night there, only leaving the bed to shower and scavenge and devour simple meals in the kitchen.

She looked at him now as he slept. His peaceful face looked younger somehow, almost boyish. Sleeping with him all night, in his arms after the many times they’d made love, was utter bliss. It was exquisite.

It was torture.

Why did she feel this way—so completely infatuated, so enamored, so connected to him in every way possible? Was it because he’d taken her virginity? Was she deluding herself, like she had with Arnold, into imagining Xavier as the fulfillment of some romantic dream?

“Don’t think I’m a good person,”he’d told her grimly. She didn’t want to believe him. How could she when every inch of her body down to blood and bone insisted differen