“Go. Back. Upstairs.” Each word is bitten off, and his breathing is getting rougher, like he’s fighting something internal.
“Or what? You’ll compel me?” I’m in his space now—angry, frustrated, and confused. “Oh, wait. You can’t.”
“Don’t push me.” The air thickens with heat, the stone walls slick with sweat.
“Why not? What are you going to do, Logan? Save me again? Ignore me tomorrow? Pretend this never?—”
He moves so fast I don’t see it coming. One second I’m ranting, the next my back hits the damp stone wall and he’s caging me in, his hands braced on either side of my head. The impact is controlled, but barely—like he stopped himself from something worse at the last second.
“You want to know what I am?” His voice is low, caught between a threat and a plea. “I’m the only person in this entire damn school you can trust.”
He’s so close I can see the darker flecks in his gray eyes, feel the heat radiating off him despite the cold wall at my back. There’s a wildness to him now, barely leashed, like whatever control he maintains is hanging by a thread.
“Because you keep saving my life,” I manage to say, even though my heart is racing.
“Yes.” His hands curl into fists against the stone, and exhaustion flashes across his face, like he hasn’t slept in days. “Because every time I see you in danger, every time I think about something happening to you—” He cuts himself off, his jaw clenched so tight the muscle jumps.
“What do you think abouthappeningto me?” My voice comes out softer than intended.
“Nothing,” he says, but his eyes tell a different story. They’re looking at me with an intensity that makes my skin prickle. “It doesn’t matter.”
“It does matter.” I search his face, trying to understand. “You want me to trust you, but you’re keeping so many secrets. You can compel witches. You show up at exactly the right moment every time. You look at me like?—“
“Stop asking questions you don’t want answers to.”
“Maybe I do want answers. Maybe I’m relieved I’m not the only one here with magic that should be impossible. Maybe?—”
He cuts me off with a kiss.
It’s nothing like the adrenaline-fueled kiss after the Hydra. This one is desperate, edged with fury, like he’s trying to burn away every secret clawing at his skin. His hands leave the wall to cup my face, and there’s something frantic in the way he kisses me, like he’s trying to consume me before something tears him away.
I should stop. Continue to demand answers. But my hands are already fisting his shirt, pulling him closer. Silver threads of power dance along every nerve ending where he touches me, and he makes a sound low in his throat that sends fire flooding through my veins.
When he eventually pulls back, his pupils are blown wide, and there’s a tremor in his hands as they frame my face. And the way he’s looking at me… it’s like he’s afraid I’m about to run away, like he’s memorizing every part of me before I can.
My heart’s racing so fast now I know he can hear it. “That’s not an answer,” I somehow manage to say, my voice soft in the empty space.
“It’s the only one you’re getting tonight.” His thumb traces my cheekbone, and then he’s kissing me again, harder this time, like he can’t handle even a millimeter of space between us.
It feels like he has no intention of stopping.Ever.Like he’s giving into a hunger he’s had for far too long and is relishing in satisfying the craving.
My hands slip under his shirt, desperate to feel more, to memorize every line of him in preparation for this thing between us to end at any moment. His skin is hot, his muscles taut, flexing under my palms like steel forged in fire. And as my fingers climb higher, exploring more of him, they catch on a chain around his neck.
I follow it, finding two rings welded together, warm from his skin.
His body tenses, like he’s a statue frozen in time, and one wrong move will break him entirely.
Did I go too far? Does he want me to stop? I search his eyes for answers, but all I find is a war brewing inside them, like he isn’t sure if he wants to kiss me again or pull away.
He doesn’t do either.
So, cautiously, I allow myself to explore the rings, feeling the worn edges, the careful way they’ve been joined. “These are beautiful,” I say softly. “The craftsmanship is?—”
“They were my parents’. Before they were killed.” Grief flickers in his expression, and his eyes flutter closed, as if he’s trying to lock down the memory somewhere deep.
He stays like that, unmoving, and I have a sudden feeling that he’sgivingsomething to me. Something precious he might never offer again.
So, reaching up to cup his face with my hand that’s not holding the rings, I trace my thumb over cheekbone, studying him in this rare, unguarded moment. For once, he looks his age—young, exhausted, and carrying too much weight on his shoulders. The harsh lines around his mouth soften, and I notice things I’ve missed before: the way his dark hair falls across his forehead when he’s not pushing it back in frustration, howhis lashes are unexpectedly long and dark against his skin, and the perfect curve of his upper lip that makes him look almost vulnerable when he’s not fighting whatever battle rages inside his heart.
