“Not what?” I snap. “Not touching me the way I clearly wanted you to? Not giving me literally the only thing that’s made me forget Henry Thurston exists for more than thirty consecutive seconds?”
His head jerks toward me, eyes dark. “Don’t use me for that.”
My laugh comes out sharp and ugly. “Funny, I was about to say the same to you.”
He flinches.
“Because that’s what this is, right?” I plow on, anger and hurt tangling together in my chest. “You push and pull and say it’s a mistake and then you’re in my bed with your hand between my legs, andI’mthe one taking advantage?”
“That’s not what I’m saying,” he grinds out. “I’m saying I’m your protection, not your—”
“My what?” I demand. “My stress relief? My consolation prize? My consolationanything?”
His hands clench into fists at his sides. For a second, I think he’s going to blow, yell something that will ruin everything. Instead, he takes a step back from the bed like he’s afraid of getting too close again.
“I crossed a line,” he says tightly. “Again. That’s on me. It can’t happen again.”
“You already said that once,” I say. My throat feels scraped raw. “How’d that work out for you?”
His gaze flicks to my bare chest, to the flush still high on my skin, then away like it physically hurts him to look.
“It won’t happen again,” he says. “I mean it this time.”
I swallow hard against the sting in my eyes. “You keep saying that like you’re in control,” I say quietly. “Newsflash, Bran: there are some things we can’t control.”
For a second, something like despair flashes across his face. Then he turns away.
“I’m going to check the perimeter,” he says, voice flat. “Make sure we’re secure.”
“At two in the morning?” I ask. “In the middle of nowhere?”
“That supposed to be a joke?” he bites out.
“No,” I say. “It’s supposed to be an admission that you’re running.”
He stops at the door, hand on the frame. His shoulders are a rigid line.
“This is me doing my job,” he says without looking back. “Get some sleep, Tallulah.”
The door clicks shut behind him.
I flop back onto the pillow, staring at the ceiling, heart still pounding for entirely different reasons than a few minutes ago.
Outside, I hear the faint creak of the front door, the whisper of cold air, then nothing. No footsteps. No movement.
He’s out there, somewhere in the dark, stewing in guilt and whatever the hell else lives under his muscles and tattoos.
I lie awake, waiting for the sound of the door again, for the weight of him returning to the cabin, to the couch, to anywhere near me.
I mean to stay awake.
My body has other ideas.
At some point, exhaustion drags me under, dreams flickering at the edges of my consciousness. They’re softer this time—no blood, no rivers. Just the echo of a rough voice sayingI’ve got youand phantom hands that both comfort and burn.
When I surface hours later to thin gray light leaking around the curtains, the other side of the bed is still empty.
The cabin is quiet.
