He finally looks at me then. And I wish he hadn’t. Because his eyes, gold-ringed and stormy, see through every wall I’ve built around myself. They don’t just look. Theyunmake.
“I didn’t have a choice,” he says, voice low. “You would’ve died.”
My throat tightens. “And the… clothes?”
His jaw flexes. “Hypothermia. The only thing that brings back core temperature that fast is heat. Skin heat.”
I nod, swallowing hard. “So you?—”
“Held you,” he finishes, his voice rougher now. “Only what was necessary.”
But his eyes saymore than that. His eyes sayI wanted to. And my body, traitorous and warm and melting into the blankets, remembers the shape of his chest, the scratch of stubble against my forehead, the way his arms wrapped around me like they were built to.
I shift, tugging the blanket higher, unsure if I’m embarrassed, grateful, or something far more dangerous.
“You should’ve just let Mary?—”
“Mary wasn’t fast enough.”
I blink. “You ran? Aren’t you sick?”
He doesn’t answer.
I study him. His chest still heaves slightly, the scratches on his skin now faintly visible in the firelight. Not scars.Fresh. Deep enough to bleed. But not enough to look like someone else gave them to him.
“Did you do that?” I whisper, nodding toward his chest.
He doesn’t flinch. But he doesn’t answer either.
“Darius,” I say, voice firmer now. “Are you okay?”
“No,” he replies. “I’m not.”
Something in me lurches at the honesty. It’s not vulnerability, not exactly. It’s justtruth, raw and quiet and given with the weight of a man who never speaks unless he means to.
He shifts closer before he seems to catch himself, his hand halfway to the edge of the blanket. His eyes drop to my mouth, and I feel it—like a lightning bolt low in my spine—the way the air changes, thickens, vibrates. The silence between us morphs into something living, breathing.
He leans in, just slightly. Then he stops.
His eyes close, and a muscle in his jaw jumps. “No,” he mutters, standing so fast the blanket falls from my shoulder.
The cold rushes back in, but not from the room.
It’s from him.
“I’ll have Mary bring you dry clothes,” he says. “Stay near the fire.”
And then he’s gone, door swinging shut behind him like a slammed pulse.
I sit there, half-naked and flushed and more confused than I’ve been in my entire life, listening to the silence he leaves behind.
And I wonderwhat the hell I’ve gotten myself into.
8
DARIUS
Ishut the door harder than necessary, and the sound reverberates through the corridor like a reprimand meant for my bones. It bounces off the stone walls and travels back to me, reminding me, in no uncertain terms, that restraint is not the same as control—not when the edges of my composure are fraying with every breath she takes in this house.
