I blink at him, hovering by the opening. He looks down, his pupils dilating as if he's barely keeping the storm within them at bay.
“In,” he growls.
I swallow nervously and move to climb in, but he jerks me back with our joined hands, pulling me into him. My other hand flies up to his chest to steady myself. His heart is pulsing in a deep steady rhythm beneath the muscle, and I press my fingertips into his flesh on instinct, like I need to feel more.
His eyes lock on mine.
“Don’t ever pull a stunt like this again.”
He lets go of my hand, and I slide into the seat, breathless. He doesn’t give me a moment to get comfortable before he leans in and fastens my seatbelt, pulling it tight across my hips. The door closes surprisingly softly. I was expecting him to slam it. Then he takes long purposeful strides around the hood, climbing into the driver’s side, his face like thunder.
“I wasn’t in any danger,” I whisper as he pulls out into the lane.
His expression remains taut as he stares out of the windscreen.
“I really wasn’t. I took a cab right to the door. And I was about to get another one back when you… when you grabbed me.”
“Did I hurt you?” His face is still rigid, a direct contrast to the concern creeping into his tone.
“What? No. You have this way of touching me that’s strong and in control, but so gentle at the same time. I should have known it was you the second I felt your hands on me.”
His jaw ticks.
“Denver?” I press, wanting a response.Needinga response.
He still won’t look at me.
My shoulders sag, and I sink into my seat, folding my arms.
“He’s not my boyfriend,” I mutter.
But my words don’t make Denver look any less pissed. In fact, he looks more murderous. I resort to silence for the rest of the drive.
It’s a tense ride up in the elevator to my apartment. Denver chooses to hold my hand again instead of placing it on my lower back like he usually would. Maybe he’s worried I’ll bolt and try to go somewhere without him again.
I open my apartment door and Monty races over to greet me, quickly going to Denver after. Denver’s already standing back up from petting him when I turn around.
“Den—”
“Lock the door,” he instructs gruffly.
He holds my eyes. There’s no warmth in them, and something about it makes my stomach drop to my feet. I nod and close the door and fix the lock.
He’s already walked away by the time I look through the peephole.
I wake up at seven-thirty to the sounds of scratching and whimpering.
“Monty?” I yawn as I sit up in bed and stretch.
He’s not in his usual place at the end of the bed where he likes to creep up and sleep in the middle of the night. He’s done it since he was big enough to climb up himself. But I’ve never stopped him. I think we both needed the comfort of not sleeping alone.
I swing my legs out of bed and go in search of the noises he’s making. The marble floor in the hallway is cool beneath my feet as I pad over to the front door where he’s lying on his tummy, his nose stuck to the base of the door, taking long sniffs.
Something in my gut twists as I step closer and look through the peephole. I don’t see anything to start with, until I look down.
Denver’s sitting with his back against the door, legs out in front of him, giant arms folded over his chest. I can’t make out much more from this angle, but I think he’s asleep.
“Monty, speak,” I whisper.
