“Don’t touch me—”
But he did.
He touched me.
His fingers curled gently beneath my chin and tilted my face up. I held my breath, waiting for it—waiting for that same horrifying stillness from last time, for my body to betray me.
But nothing happened.
No freezing. No paralysis. Just the warmth of his fingers beneath my jaw. Just his eyes, watching me, close and endless.
But not controlling.
No.
This time, my body didn’t shut down. But it reacted differently. It leaned slightly and burned quietly. Why did it feel like I missed his contact, one that I had no right to long for?
My frown deepened. I stared into his gaze, heart racing, trying to figure out what trick he’d pulled this time, why his touch felt familiar or why he was fooling my body into craving more of his touch.
“Was that what you were thinking,” he murmured, “when you panicked earlier? That I’m out to kill you?”
“Maybe.”
His thumb grazed my chin, inching closer to my lower lip, so close it made me forget how to breathe.
“Then tell me why were you searching for a creature with no shadow?”
My breath caught. “How...” I stopped, then remembered the mess I’d made in my room. He must’ve seen it when he was tidying. “To know what I’m living with.”
“I’m human,” he said.
I scoffed. “Right. And I love that you’re staying with me.”
His mouth curved slightly.Almosta smile.
He tilted his head, and with another inch of closeness to my lips, he murmured, “I love the sound of that.”
And his eyes dropped to my mouth.
I stopped breathing.
Couldn’t move, couldn’t look away.
I was trapped in that gaze, torn between the shape of his lips and the way his eyes darkened while watching mine. It was as though he was memorising the fullness, the curves, and the shyness I couldn’t hide. Seconds stretched into a quiet agony as he kept staring unabashedly without a word.
“Stop tidying up my room for me,” I blurted, reaching for anything to disrupt the rising heat between us. “I can do that myself.”
But he didn’t even blink, didn’t twitch. His gaze was still locked on my lips, heavy and possessive, like he hadn’t heard a single word. Or maybe he had and just didn’t care.
My mouth gave the dry sensation of thirst. I swallowed hard, resisting the urge to lick my lips, to run my tongue slowly across the bottom one just to soothe the burn. But the itch was maddening.
All of the sudden, his fingers dropped from my jaw. They glided down in an unhurried manner, one that was scorching.
His palm settled on the side of my neck, wide and warm, his thumb brushing the edge of my throat. And for a heartbeat, the weight and heat of his palm was still.
Then the pressure began. It was a soft squeeze, barely anything at first…then another second, and it grew tighter. Hotter. Like he was testing how much of my pulse he could claim.
I gasped silently.
