13
HARPER
His gaze lingers on the rain a moment longer before he finally turns his head, not enough to face me fully, but enough that the shadow of his expression sharpens. The bruise on his cheek darkens the cut of his cheekbone, making his eyes look deeper, more unreadable. When he speaks, it’s not in that low, taunting tone he usually wields like a blade. It’s quieter, almost reflective.
“You’re not the only one with secrets, Harper.”
The words hit harder than anything he’s said all morning. Not because of the accusation, not because of the implication, but because of the way he says my name. Like he’s tired of circling the truth. Like he wants me to understand something without him having to spell it out.
Anger surges up so fast my body moves before my mind can form the thought. My boots strike the stone floor with purpose, and I’m crossing the small distance between us, ready to tear into him for his arrogance, for his half-truths, for the way he keeps tugging me closer with one hand while pushing me away with the other. The storm inside me has been simmering since that dummy slammed into me, since my eyes glowed, since he pinned me to the wall, and his calmness now feels like a spark tossed onto dry tinder.
But Sebastian moves first.
In one fluid motion, he reaches forward, fisting the front of my shirt and yanking me toward him with more force than refinement. The sound that leaves me is not fear, it’s surprise, sharp and unguarded. My body stumbles, kneehitting the stone beside his thigh as I brace myself, my other hand shooting out to grip the front of his shirt for balance.
Suddenly I’m hovering over him, breath mingling with his, the fabric of my blouse clenched in his fist while my own fingers knot in the dark fabric stretched across his chest. The position is startlingly intimate, so unexpected I freeze for a moment, caught between outrage and something dangerously close to want. His knee brackets mine, his body warm beneath me even through layers of clothing, and the library seems to shrink around us until only the rain and our shallow breaths exist.
Sebastian glances down, not at my face, but at the lines our bodies have formed, the scruff of his shirt twisted in my hand, the curve of my knee pressed into the alcove beside his leg. His lashes lower for half a heartbeat, not with embarrassment, not even with desire exactly, but with awareness, as though the gravity of the moment settles onto him all at once.
When he looks up again, his eyes lock onto mine with a focus that borders on command.
“Sit.”
One word.
One syllable.
Soft, but laced with an authority that pulls at something deep in my spine.
He isn’t smirking.
He isn’t teasing.
The word hangs between us, suspended in the thin slice of air where his breath meets mine. My pulse thrums loud enough that I’m certain he hears it, but I refuse to let him see how deeply that single command unsettled me. My fingers slowly release the bunch of fabric I’ve gathered in his shirt, and I shift just enough to reclaim some sense of control. If hewants me to sit, fine, I’ll sit. But I won’t let him think for a moment that he can dictate my every move.
I begin to lower myself beside him on the stone ledge, intending to put a respectable, safe, distance between us. The window alcove is narrow, cold where the rain has leached its chill into the stone, but it feels steadier than hovering over him. I ease toward that space, prepared to slide into place and regain even a shred of emotional footing.
But his voice stops me before I make contact.
“Not there.”
It’s quiet, almost gentle, but the tone vibrates with something I can’t quite name, something that wraps around my spine and pulls. My movements still instantly. The warmth of his hand is gone from my shirt, but its ghost remains, lingering on my skin like a held breath.
I turn my head toward him slowly, unwilling to give him the satisfaction of a startled reaction. His expression gives nothing away, no smug grin, no raised brow, just an unwavering steadiness that tells me he isn’t making a joke. His gaze drops to the empty space directly in front of him, then back to my eyes, and the message there coils tightly between us.
He didn’t want me beside him.
He wanted me closer.
A pulse of heat travels through my chest, confusing and unwelcome. The rain outside blurs into streaks of muted gray, and the breath I pull in feels too thick, too warm. The space he’s indicating places me between his legs, closer than any reasonable person would sit with someone they claim to barely tolerate.
For a moment, I don’t move.
Can’t move.
His jaw shifts just slightly, a muscle ticking beneath the bruise on his cheek as he watches the indecision flickeracross my face. There’s no arrogance this time, no command sharpened by ego. If anything, there’s an honesty in the request that unsettles me more than his usual bravado.
He wants me there.
