The air between us is thick, hungry, desperate. It would take nothing to fall into him, but I don’t. Not this time.
I step around him, my legs unsteady. He doesn’t follow, doesn’t call out, doesn’t grab my arm as I retreat down the hall. The restraint in him is a different kind of danger.
I close myself in my old room, pressing my back to the door, heart pounding so loud I can’t hear anything else. My hands shake as I press them to my face, breath ragged and shallow.
I want to believe that if I lock the door, I’ll be safe from him. The truth is, it’s not the door that matters. It’s the way my body still hums from his touch, the way my lips tingle with the memory of almost kissing him. I wrap my arms around myself, fighting the ache that refuses to fade.
I hate him for making me crave what I shouldn’t. I hate the way my body answers to him before my mind can catch up. I hate the flicker of disappointment that runs through me when he lets me go.
Most of all, I hate myself for wanting him. For remembering every rough kiss, every gentle stroke, every broken promise that he’d keep his distance.
I pace the room, unable to sit still. My skin feels too tight, my nerves raw and exposed. I remember the way he looked at me. Hungry, yes, but there was something else there too. Something like longing. Something that scares me even more than his anger.
I want to call Eden, to confess how twisted I feel, how much I want what I shouldn’t. But there’s no one to listen but the quiet house, the steady patter of rain against the glass.
I collapse onto the bed, twisting the sheet between my fists, trying to chase the ghost of him from my skin. I press my thighs together, desperate for relief, desperate to forget, but every movement only reminds me of the way he touched me: possessive, claiming, as if I belonged to him.
I remember the feel of his lips, the sound of his voice, the promise in every look. Shame burns in my chest, but it’s not enough to drown the hunger. I close my eyes, breath shuddering, wishing I could tear the longing from my bones.
It lingers, stubborn as ever.
By the time dawn creeps gray and thin across the ceiling, I’m still awake, caught between guilt and desire. I curl into myself, letting the ache settle, knowing that nothing has changed. I still want him. I still fear him.
I still don’t know which feeling will win.
Down the hall, I hear his footsteps again. I squeeze my eyes shut, praying for the strength to keep saying no.
A knock comes at the door. I stay very still, curled on my side, breath caught in my throat.
The memory of his touch still smolders beneath my skin, humiliation and longing churning in my chest. I keep my eyes squeezed shut, willing whoever is out there to give up and go away.
The silence stretches, broken only by the steady beat of rain against the windows. I almost believe he’s left, that I’ve won a moment’s peace.
Then his voice comes, low and certain, through the thick wood. “Clara. I know you’re awake.”
I don’t move. My pulse stutters. The urge to answer claws at me, but I bite it back.
He waits a long moment. “This house is big, but you can’t hide from me forever.”
His tone is gentler than I expect, no threat, no demand, just that quiet certainty that always unsettles me more than rage ever could. My hand trembles where it clutches the sheet.
I press my knuckles to my mouth to keep from speaking, from begging him to come in, from begging him to stay away.
“Whenever you’re ready,” he adds, softer now, “I’ll be here.”
I listen to his footsteps fade down the hall, tension unspooling in my muscles as the distance grows. Still, the ache he leaves behind is worse than before.
I stay silent, stubborn. His words linger, sinking deep, making a liar of me. I know he’s right.
No matter how far I run, No matter how tightly I close the door, I’ll never be able to hide from what I feel for him.
Chapter Eighteen - Lukyan
The night is too still. I feel it first as a prickle at the base of my neck—a hush that isn’t peace, but warning. It’s the kind of quiet that always comes before violence, a silence sharpened by menace.
I sit in my office, lights low, pistol on the desk, eyes fixed on the black windowpanes. Out in the hall, the house feels suspended, every echo a question.
Then the world explodes.
