He places something smooth and cold on my palm. A heavy glass ornament.
“This one’s fragile, Sloane. Be careful.”
“I’m extremely delicate,” I whisper into the dark, dripping sarcasm.
“I know,” he says, and there’s not a hint of sarcasm in his voice. “Now… slowly forward. There’s a branch at shoulder height. Let me guide your arm.”
His hand covers my wrist, guiding me firmly. Possessively.
The tension in my chest starts to melt.
We’re finding a rhythm.
His voice is an anchor in the darkness.
Then—
A cloying cologne hits my nose.
Footsteps. Heavy.
Someone walks up to our tree.
“Careful not to trip, Sloane,” a voice says to my left.
Joe.
He’s suddenly close. Too close. His tone is oozing that fake concern I know far too well.
“You always get turned around in the dark,” he purrs. “Wouldn’t want you hurting yourself… like last time.”
My spine locks.
The words slam into me like open-handed slaps.
Dragging up memories I don’t ever want to revisit.
I step back instinctively, disoriented, desperate to put distance between me and that voice.
My heel slips on something fallen on the floor.
The world tilts—
Then steel arms catch me before I hit the ground.
Lift me with startling strength.
Press me against a solid chest that smells like rage and protection.
Cohen.
“I’ve got you,” he growls into my hair.
His heart is pounding hard against my ribs. His muscles are tight as cables.
He shifts, placing himself between me and Joe—shielding me completely.
“I told you to stay in your damn square, Joe,” Cohen says.
