I froze.
His hand came up, not to push me away, but to close around my wrist. His grip wasn't tight; it was a circle of heat that felt like a caress. His thumb pressed against the inside of my wrist, right where my pulse hammered.
He could feel it. The evidence of what his touch did to me.
We stood there, trapped in the silence, connected by that point of contact, my fingers on his tie, his hand on my wrist. In the shadows, his gaze was dark, intense, utterly focused on my face. I saw the conflict in his eyes. Anger fighting something softer.
Time stopped. The only sound was the frantic drum of my own heartbeat in my ears.
Then, as suddenly as it began, it was over. He released my wrist as if I'd burned him, his hand dropping to his side. He took a deliberate step back, putting a foot of cool, empty space between us.
His chest was rising and falling too quickly. His hands curled into fists at his sides, like he was physically restraining himself.
"Go home, Anna." His voice was rough, stripped bare. Almost desperate. "Now."
I didn't need to be told twice. I turned and walked to the service entrance, my legs unsteady. I didn't look back.
In the elevator, I leaned against the wall, pressing my trembling hand, the one he'd touched, against my stomach. My skin still tingled where his fingers had been.
What had just happened?
He'd almost... we'd almost...
No. I couldn't even finish the thought. It was impossible. Dangerous. Wrong in every conceivable way.
But I could still feel the heat of his hand on my wrist, the way his pulse had hammered against my fingertips.
Driving through the neon-washed streets, the reality settled over me. The danger had shifted. His rage, his cold disdain, his plans for revenge, those had been survivable.
But this... this reluctant truce, this shared vulnerability, the shocking, electric charge of that single touch... it was a different kind of peril. This was the possibility of him starting to see me not as a monster, but as a woman. This was the fragile, terrifying spark of an attraction that had no right to exist.
My phone buzzed as I pulled into my apartment parking lot. A text. From Jack.
Jack
First session Saturday, 10 AM. Margaret will brief you on Friday. Be on time.
Professional. Exactly what it should be.
But sent at 11:47 PM. Which meant he was still awake. Still thinking about what had happened.
Just like I was.
I stared at the message for a long moment before typing back:
Anna
I'll be there.
I watched the screen. Waiting. The three dots appeared, disappeared, appeared again.
Then, nothing.
Whatever he'd been about to say, he'd thought better of it.
I locked my phone and sat in the dark car, wondering if I'd just been given a second chance at redemption or signed up for the most exquisite torture of my life.
Probably both.
