Hold. His eyes lock on mine. Really lock. Really see me.
Out. His chest expands less frantically. His breath is less ragged.
His eyes are locked on mine. Enormous. Dark. Endless. I can see myself reflected in them. I can see his fear.
The shaking eases. Slowly. Gradually. The tremors lessen. The violent shivering calms to fine trembling. His muscles unlock.
His breath evens out. In. Out. In. Out. Steady. Closer to normal. Closer to safe.
We're so close I can feel the warmth of his exhale against my jaw. His breath on my skin. Soft. Intimate. Wrong. Not wrong. Something else.
And then—
Something shifts. The moment changes. The air changes. Everything changes.
I don't know what it is. Can't name it. Can't explain it. But I feel it. Deep. Visceral. Undeniable. A look. A moment. The way his pupils contract just slightly. Focusing. Sharpening. Seeingme. Really seeing me. The way his lips part. Soft. Pink. Wet where he licks them. Inviting. Not inviting. Fuck.
Something. Indefinable. Magnetic. Dangerous. Pull. Like gravity. Like falling. Like being pulled under.
My heart does this stupid flutter in my chest. Skips a beat. Stutters. Restarts wrong. Fast. Too fast. This skip that I've never felt before. Never. Not with anyone. Not with any of the men I've been with. Not with anyone.
I'm nearly thirty years old. I've been with more men than I can count. Dozens. More than dozens. Men of all types. All sizes. All personalities. I know attraction. I know chemistry. I know lust.
This isn't that. This is different. This is more. This is dangerous.
This is—
Different. Intense. Consuming. Wrong.So wrong.
More. Than it should be. Than it can be. Than I can allow it to be.
Dangerous. To me. To him. To everyone. To everything.
I drop my hands like I've been burned. Jerk back. Put space between us. Air. Distance. Sanity.
Step back. One step. Two. My back hits the counter. Not far enough. Not nearly far enough.
Max blinks. The moment shattered. Broken. Gone. His eyes clear. Confusion replaces whatever was there before. The moment shatters.
"You're okay," I say, and my voice comes out rougher than I mean it to. Raw. Wrecked. Betraying everything I'm trying to hide. "Your hands are bandaged. Get some sleep." Leave. Go. Before I do something I can't take back. Before I say something that changes everything. Before—
He stares at me for a second longer. His eyes searching mine. Looking for something. Finding something. I don't know what. I don't want to know.
Then he slides off the counter, his movements careful, his wrapped hands held against his chest. Protective. Wounded. Beautiful. Fuck. No. Not beautiful. Can't think that. Can't—
"Leave me alone," he says quietly. The words are soft but firm. A boundary. A wall. A rejection I should be grateful for.
He walks past me. So close. Too close. Out of the kitchen. Up the stairs. His footsteps quiet. Fading. Leaving me alone with my thoughts. With what just happened. With the realization that I'm completely fucked.
I stand there in the middle of the kitchen, my hands braced on the counter, my head hanging, my breath coming too fast, heart still racing, pounding against my ribs, threatening to break through, hands still tingling from where I touched his face. Burning. Like the memory is seared into my skin. Like I can still feel his heat. His softness. His pulse.
What the fuck was that? What the fuck just happened? What did I just feel? What am I still feeling? What—
I press my palms against the counter and take a breath. Deep. Shaky. Not enough. Never enough.
This is—unacceptable. Impossible. Wrong. He's my stepbrother. He's twenty years old. He's Margot's son. He's off-limits in every way that matters and some ways I didn't even know existed. This can't happen. This isn't happening. This didn't happen.
No. I'm shutting this down. Right now. This moment. This feeling. This—whatever this is. It ends here. It has to.
