When he turned, eyes catching me still standing in the doorway, he moved.
My breath caught as he closed the distance. By the time I stumbled back a step, his hand was already clamped around my wrist, and he yanked me inside, shutting the door with a slam.
He dragged me to the foot of his bed and made me sit. Then he draped one of his shirts over my thighs, like he was throwing a blanket over fire, before turning back to his wardrobe with a tick grinding in his jaw.
I glanced down at the shirt, a small, reckless smile tugged at my lips. Slowly, I peeled it away, sitting there in only a sleep top that barely covered me. My thighs were bared, the edge of my panties nearly visible. Let him burn.
He didn’t get to play safe while my mind was tripping at the sight of his half-naked body.
When he turned to drop another shirt, his eyes came to me—precisely my thighs first—and his jaw tightened, muscles ticking in them.
His gaze slid back to me in warning. “Put it back.”
I smothered my smile as I turned away. “I’m hot. It’s hot in here.”
“I can make you hotter, Sanora. So hot you’ll break, and neither of us will come back from it.” His voice roughened with restraint. “Now put it back.”
Damn, this man.
I swore I almost obeyed, my hand almost grabbed the shirt. But instead of doing that, I balled my fists to anchor myself against the command thrumming through his tone.
I glanced back, and the look on his face would have buried me if it could. He was glaring like he wanted to devour me whole.
I pushed my fingers through my hair, my nipples straining against the thin fabric of my shirt with the motion. “You’re staring at me like you want me gone.”
I’d barely finished speaking before his voice cut in. “Don’t move an inch from there.”
When he turned back to the wardrobe and he paused for a second, like his hands had forgotten what he was doing, I couldn’t help the blush that crept up my neck.
The room pressed in around us, thick with the scent of him. My eyes roamed over the space until my mind clicked on a question I’d always wanted to ask him.
“Is there a way in and out of Nimorran that isn’t the train?”
“Yes.”
My spine jerked upright. “Really? Where? How?” There was no use racking my brain because I knew I hadn’t read that anywhere.
“Why? You want to escape?”
“Escape from what?”
He twisted his head to glance at me—really look at me—and for a moment, I thought I’d said something wrong, but then he replied before I could think any further.
“It’s not safe. Only one percent of people know about it, and they’re probably not alive anymore. There are lots of curses like the Pylath around there, and the paths twist every hour to confuse passers-by. It plays with whoever ventures there, but might eventually pardon them. By then, there’s a high chance they’re dying of thirst and hunger,” he explained as he went between his wardrobe and his bed.
My heart stuttered. “Do you think Weeny Man is dead?”
His voice cooled to steel. “I couldn’t care less.”
“There is no way he'd have left Nimorran that day without the train. I walk by his bookshop everyday and it’s just as it always is. He’s not here and he might have travelled through that path. Shit, he doesn’t have his car with him. It takes twenty-two hours by train to get here. How long do you think he’s going to walk for—”
“I can’t believe I’m listening to thoughts concerning Winifred.”
“Do you think he’s dead—wait.” My mind froze at his words. “How do you know he’s Winifred?”
He closed his wardrobe, and I looked behind me to see he’d sorted out his clothes—a black shirt and matching trousers. No coats. I let out a sigh of relief. He wasn’t going anywhere.
When I looked up, he was already moving. He stopped in front of me, knees brushing mine. I was sitting and he was standing, looming over me like a doom, the height difference making me feel small and caged.
