Before I could react, Rowan’s arms were around me. I squealed and beat at his chest, but he hauled me against him like I weighed nothing. Flashbacks of unsolicited—or coerced—intimacy hit me. My body straightened in terror and I reacted without meaning to. I threw my palm up, nearly connecting with his nose and he surprisingly dodged.
“Fuck, Violet. I’m trying to help.”
“Put me down!” I demanded, squirming in his grip.
Logically, I knew I shouldn’t be afraid—it was just Rowan. Despite how much I loathed him, I still trusted him. Yet, knowing that did not stop my body’s visceral reaction.
He said, “Nyet.I will not.”
My BJJ training kicked in. I recalled a dozen different ways to break out of his grasp and two dozen ways to hurt him. I knew how to create an imbalance, disrupt his posture, throw my weight to his unstable side, trap one of his arms as I guided my fall, hook a leg behind his knee, drag both with me as we dropped. . .
Then what? We roll around on the dirty sidewalk until you can lock a limb? To what end?I knew he was too stubborn to tap out and I didn’t want to seriously hurt him. . . much.
“And why not?” I screeched, trying not to let my fear leak into the words. “If this is about my ass being out, then you can shove your mysog—"
“You are injured and limping and I do not like seeing you in pain this way.”
And there he goes again. It was infuriating how easily he got under my skin with his swapping between hot and cold, between kind and cruel. He didn’t care that my ass was hanging out. No, he cared about my feet.He’s always surprising me.
“I can walk,” I grumbled. I was uncomfortable with being carried through the streets, but I felt my anger and fear slowly dissipating, trusting in the way he held me.
“On bleeding feet? I do not think that would be best.”
I closed my eyes and focused on the pain of my feet—a reminder that this was the present.He is not Edward. I am safe, I told myself as my racing heart calmed.
He continued our trek, and I wasveryaware of how my body pressed against his, the heat of him seeping through my thin clothes. My mouth went dry and I tried for humor. “Being carried like a princess isn’t as comfortable as the movies make it to be.”
I heard him snort, and I was careful to ignore how I was tucked under his chin like precious cargo. His hands were gentle on me, easing away tension as I melted into his arms. His touch did not seem to bother me as much as others did.
Fuck, Violet. You are tired. You are stressed. You are definitelynotsexually attracted to your asshole childhood friend who has a delicious accent that could melt panties.
I scowled, my brows drawn tight as he carried me all the way to my dorm—a miraculous trek given we were at least over a mile from the dorm. I reached for my keys in my purse and there was an awkward moment of him holding me while I searched for it. He managed to squat so I could put the key in and mercifully my roommate was still gone with her friend, Natalia.
He set me down with deliberate care, hands lingering on my waist before retreating. The outside school grounds streetlamp cast gold bars across worn wooden floors, painting Rowan in stripes of light and shadow. Somehow he had barely broken a sweat. Probably a by-product of his extensive runs with his adopted father, Charlie.
He asked, “Do you need help taking off your heels?”
My gaze lingered on his tantalizing mouth as he said those words.You need a cold shower and to get away from him, I reminded myself as I shook my head. “No, I’ve got it. You should go home.”
Folding himself onto my bed’s edge, he looked haggard. The mattress dipped under his weight. He sat there, elbows on his knees, eyes tracking me as I chucked heels off, and stumbled around my cluttered side ofthe dorm. I busied myself pulling off clothes, gathering my bath caddy, grabbing my pajamas.
“Why,” he asked with a weary curiosity.
I sat my toiletries down on my desk and sank into the chair, examining my battered feet, noting the pink nail polish had chipped. I made a note to get them fixed and tried not to fidget. “Why what?”
“Why dance at Oubliette?”
I shrugged, aiming for nonchalance. “Money.”
“Ne nesi chush!” he said with that hint of Russian accent I was getting too comfortable hearing. “Stop lying to me. Your family has money.”
“Did you call outbullshitin Russian? Rowan, my funds are locked in atrust,” I explained. “Daddy could release them early, but I’d need a business proposal. Do I look like I’m running a business while finishing my degree?” I gestured to the chaos of my half of the dorm: textbooks stacked on the floor, archery gear in the corner, clothes draped over every available surface. “Besides, there’s something in that club I want.”
His eyes narrowed. “What?”
“A pony.”
“Violet—"
