It's beautiful outside, and normally, I am a lover of all things white and powdery before Christmas time. But this morning, all I can think is how achingly bad my heart wants freedom I'm not sure I can ever have again. When my hand rests on the doorknob, I hear someone speak.
"Planning your escape?"
I spin around, my heart slamming against my ribs. Rafe stands in the doorway, arms crossed, his dark hair slightly mussed from sleep. He's wearing a black T-shirt and gray sweatpants, and his feet are bare. The ink on his arms and around his neck seems to stand out more with the black shirt, which makes my heart flutter a little harder. He's so fucking hot.
"I was making coffee," I grumble and stomp across the room toward the coffee maker. He can make all the assumptions he wants, but the fact remains that I didn't open the door and run even though I thought about it.
"You were staring at the door."
"I was thinking."
"About leaving?" he asks, and I snap my attention to him, glaring as boldly as I can muster. Something in me just knows he gets a rise out of it when I act like a meek little waif of a woman. Which makes me want so badly to be the badass bitch he isn't expecting. If only I could maintain that all the time.
"About fresh air." I turn back to the coffee maker and pour myself a cup, willing my hands not to shake. "Is that allowed, or do I need permission to breathe too?"
He doesn't answer right away. I hear his footsteps crossing the kitchen slowly and he stops behind me close enough that I can feel the heat radiating off his body. My fingers tighten around the mug.
"You're not going anywhere," he says quietly, and his voice is a rumble so close to my ear that it threatens to undo me.
"I wasn't trying to escape," I say firmly, and it's the God's honest truth. That's how I have the confidence to turn and face him, keeping the scalding coffee between us.
"Liar."
My chin lifts and my eyes meet his and there's not a hint of anger there. It's almost amusement, and if I'm not mistaken, arousal. The bulge in his sweatpants makes it so obvious. Maybe that'swhy he wore them. He wants me to see what I do to him? Or what he thinks I'd do to him if he took off the restraint.
"I need air," I say, nodding toward the back door. "That's all." And I refrain from fanning myself because my God, I really do need air. My face feels like a million degrees and my body is on fire. He smells so good.
"It's twenty degrees outside."
"Then I'll be quick."
I move toward the door, but his hand shoots out and grips my wrist. "You don't go outside without telling me first," he says.
I yank my arm free and glare at him. "I'm going to stand on the deck for five minutes. I'm not scaling the fence."
"You don't go outside," he repeats, and now his voice sounds threatening. "Without telling me first."
"Fine. I'm telling you. I'm going outside."
His eyes narrow but he says, "Go ahead," and I get the feeling he's planning to stand there watching me to make sure I don’t run.
I set the coffee mug on the counter and reach for the deadbolt. My fingers fumble with the lock, and I feel his gaze on me the entire time. The door swings open, and cold air rushes in, biting at my face and neck. Snow drifts down in fat, lazy flakes, settling on the deck railing and the bare branches of the trees beyond the fence, and though I immediately regret being so goddamn rebellious sometimes, I pick up my mug and force myself to move.
I step outside and wrap my arms around myself. The sweatshirt isn't enough. The cold slices through the fabric and needles through my skin, but I don't go back inside. My toes feel like they've been frozen solid in under thirty seconds, but still, I stand there, breathing in the frozen air, and watch the snow fall.
I refuse to give him any satisfaction in this. I deserve the right to breathe in fresh air when I damn well please. The coffee could warm me, but even it's cold in ninety seconds, or at least tepid. And I'm fighting every urge to shiver when I hear the door click shut behind me.
I spin around and see Rafe standing just inside the threshold, his hand still on the handle. He's watching me through the glass with an amused expression like he's enjoying watching me suffer, and I hate him for it. I hold his gaze for a moment, then turn back to the yard, but the door opens again.
"Get inside," he grumbles.
"I said five minutes."
"You've had two."
"Then I have three left."
I hear him exhale. Then his footsteps cross the deck, and suddenly, he's beside me, his arms folded across his chest. He doesn't look at me. He looks out at the yard, but I look at him and I watch his jaw tighten.
