He assesses me for a moment. Questions swarm beneath his surface, unspoken and raw. It's the first time I notice how disheveled his hair is, as if he'd been pulling at it not long before I got home.Not your problem, Ivanya. Stop.But then his skin glows against the flickering light of flame.
“Why do you look at me like that?” he asks, and the words would sound harsh from anyone else, but they're barely a whisper, and it snaps me out of my daze.
“Like what?” I tilt my head for effect, letting the question hang between us like a challenge. I wish I had been drinking, then I could blame the alcohol for the way I'd clearly just been caught gawking at him like some starved beast.
He holds my stare and shifts forward, slow and deliberate, until his elbows rest on his thighs. The movement only deepens the shadows carved around his features, making him look like something pulled from the dark corners of my most dangerous thoughts.
“You know what.”
I laugh, cutting him off, and rest back against the cold stone. My hair falls over my shoulder, and I rake it out of my face and onto one side.
“Trust me.” I blink, swallowing past the pain of never being able to have this man. “I probably wouldn't be in the position I'm in right now if I did.”
I hesitate when I realize I've said too much, then swallow the remainder of my drink. “I should probably go to bed.”
We both stand at the same time, forcing any space out from between us.
I stumble into him. “Shit, sorry.”
He takes my hand, igniting a flurry of heat through my veins. “Stop fucking acting as if we didn't spend a whole year getting to know each other, and enter into another hurting because we didn't see each other as much.”
I try to pull back, but he holds me in place. The movement is out of character.
My attention drifts up his chest, tracing the sharp lines of his jaw, before settling back on him.
“What?” I ask, trying to keep my voice steady, but it comes out weak. So fucking weak. Not like me at all. “Like you cared that we went a whole bunch of time without really seeing each other. Judging by the fiancée upstairs, you were obviously busy.”
Something dangerous flicks behind those storm-colored eyes before his tongue sweeps across his bottom lip. Slow, deliberate.
Then he releases my hand like I've burned him. “Yeah, you're right. We should go to bed.”
I don’t hesitate, making my way to the stairs. I quickly pass portraits, landing on the glow of the gold door handle that leads to my bedroom.
I backpedal fast, retracing my path, praying I don't crash into Asher and spark that fucking mess all over again.
Before, it was simple. Clean lines. We knew the score, flirted around the edges, kept it manageable.
Now? The wires between us are twisting into something I can't untangle. As strong as the chain to an anchor…
He took me to a yacht. I wish I believed in fairytales like the ones friends used to talk about. Maybe I'd be able to talk myself into pretending this is just a detour to see Dad. But I don't read fairytales. Happily Ever Afters aren't for me.
Water rocks against the hull, swaying me from left to right. Salt clings to my nose. From the sea, or/ from crying too hard. I slowly slip to the side, ensuring I have the door in view. I justhave to keep an eye on it. Make sure I can see who enters and who leaves.
I wake up with a jolt and someone screams. Maybe it was me. My back is against the wall when I see someone in front of me. She’s tall. Very tall. Adult tall. But has something covering her face, a kind of veil. Sheer, kind of like the ones you marry with.
She raises her hands in a way that reminds me of surrender.
“What do you want?” I snap. If I’m going to die, I’ll at least go down fighting.
Her head shakes from side to side before she gestures to a chair. I look between it and her, conflicted on what she’s implying. Did she want me to sit? It’s the first time I notice the room. It’s not as small as I thought. There’s a bed, a makeup vanity and a dresser. There’s a small fridge that’s directly beside me, and bedding that seems unused.
When she gestures again, I decide to do as she asks, if anything to see what she does.
Lowering to the small cushion chair, she takes a shorter stool beside it and begins opening and closing the drawers in the dresser.
“What is happening? Why am I here?”
The girl doesn’t answer.
