I have you.
And I’m once again reminded of who she really is.
I snatch the sneakers out of her hands and shove them on my feet, glaring at her the whole time.
“When were you going to tell me you were socasualabout mur—” I quickly look around us. “Murder!” I mouth.
“That’s not what that was,” she says, pulling her hood up. “That was doing society a favor.”
“And how many otherfavorshave you taken care of?”
She doesn’t answer as she stretches out the neck of the hoodie that was just draped over her arm, then holds it up to pull over my head. I don’t hesitate to bow my head and allow her to put the hoodie on, even taking advantage of her holding out the arms to help me get dressed.
“I don’t think you want the answer to that,” she eventually says, her eyes moving down the hall. “Not tonight.”
“No? When then?” I ask as I straighten the hem. Gemma tucks my hair back and pulls the hood up over my head. She steps back to look me over, and as she does, her eyes darken, creating a squirming pit in my stomach that is only making my anger at her more and more feral.
“Was anyone coming by today?” she asks.
“Just you,” I snap.
Because she isn’t distracting me that easily—no matter how much I’d love for her to shut up my rambling right now.
“What other secrets are you hiding?” I ask, ignoring her darkened gaze. “What else are you—”
The elevator dings. Gemma’s eyes widen toward it. I don’t know what or who she’s expecting, but she takes my hand and pulls me in the opposite direction.
I can’t get my thoughts straight. I’m angry, relieved, scared, aroused. She’s keeping her cool through this, checking on me every few seconds, making sure I’m not about trip over my own shoelaces or collapse with the fact that we’re running down the stairwell after very randomly murdering one of the guys who attacked me.
After telling me that she’s my stalker.
The pressure of her hand on mine doesn’t make me want to pull away. It makes me want to curl into her grasp. I’m running on pure adrenaline. I know I’m not thinking straight. I know to protect me my mind is making up what it has to.
But I’m pretty sure Gemma Thomas is the reason I’m alive.
I can feel the realization dilate my blood vessels and massage my anxiety.
Fuck the noise.
Fuck how angry I am at her, for the betrayal swarming through me.
Fuck all of that.
I need her.
At the next landing, I tug on her hand. She turns with narrowed eyes, obvious concern in her features. She opens her mouth to speak, but I yank her into me, press my hands to her cheeks, and kiss her hard.
The moment our lips meet, her panic dissipates. She shoves me into the wall without hesitation. I’m pinned against her, my mind numbing by the millisecond. And when she grabs me by the throat, I surrender.
Ohfuck, yes.
Rage and adrenaline pulses through us both. The kiss is feral and angry, desperate and terrified. Gemma hikes my leg around her waist, nails clawing at my thigh. We’re everywhere all at once. Scratching. Squeezing. Groping. Stroking. It’s harsh and wild. Every nip and bite and scrape is rougher than the last. We’re one fucked up, toxic mass of shit created to feed on one another’s fears, made to heal the worst parts of each other.
Made to take on the world hand-in-hand.
She kisses the corner of my lip, my jaw, my throat—each one leaving little nips behind that make my mouth sag, my body roll. Fuck,Gemma.
It’s her.
