Rivulets of water run down the surface of the wall, pooling on the ground at our feet. The longer Donovan presses our hands against the wall, the faster the little streams flow.
Our touch is melting the freaking ice.
“That…that shouldn’t be possible,” I mumble.
He gives a rough laugh. “I mean, neither should falling through a goddamn trapdoor and landing in a snowbank without breaking half our bones. It’s an escape room, right? Man-made. There’s no reason to expect this to act like real ice. Who knows what it’s actually made of, or what it’s programmed to respond to.”
Or what magic is behind it,I think but don’t say. I’m too relieved to have discovered a way out of this maze to question the reason behind it.
Thedrip-drip-dripintensifies, the wall liquifying and sliding aside enough to reveal the dim gap between the next two blocks. Still holding hands, we squeeze through. Behind us, the wall solidifies again, blocking the way back.
“This is crazy,” Donovan mutters. His voice echoes, reverberating in the small space. “How the hell are we supposed to know which way to go? We could end up wandering in fucking circles for hours. What the hell was Ethan thinking?”
“He was thinking that he wanted us to work together. Which we’re kind of doing.” I look pointedly down at our intertwined hands.
Donovan snorts, his gaze following mine. “Oh yeah. The next time you and I are paired up on an Arctic expedition, we’ll have the perfect game plan.”
He looks like he wants to say something else, but his mouth snaps shut when the walls shift toward us, forcing us to the left. “This way?” he says, glancing at me. “Or the other?”
“Hold on.” I pull my hand out of his and grab the hem of my shirt, tearing at the material. Or trying to, anyway. They always make it look so easy in action movies, when people need makeshift bandages…or in romance novels, when lust-crazed lovers tear each other’s clothes to bits. But no matter how hard I try, even hooking my fingers through one of the holes that thesparks burnt in my shirt and tugging as hard as I can, nothing happens. Of course, maybe that has something to do with the fact that I’m freezing, and my hands are all but numb.
Donovan’s eyebrows rise in shock. “What the hell are you doing?”
Now that we’ve figured out how to melt our way out of here, my dread has retreated, replaced by adrenalized euphoria. The walls have stabilized for the moment—they seem to be triggered by movement—and I can’t help but seize the opportunity to tease him. “What does it look like? I’m stripping, of course. It’s my dream to have sex in Santa’s workshop, and this seems like the anteroom, don’t you think? A little gloomy, but beggars can’t be choosers.”
His jaw drops. “You—you want to?—”
“Oh, come on,” I say, still fruitlessly tugging. “You’ve never been propositioned in an ice maze before?”
Donovan scrubs a hand through his hair, his expression appalled. “You’re kidding, right? Please say you’re kidding.”
“I have a Saint Nick fetish,” I say, moving on to another hole. “So sue me.”
“What are you really doing, Rune?” His voice is a growl. “Because I swear, I can’t tell if you’re serious or not, and if you?—”
I take pity on him. “I want to leave something behind, okay? So we’ll know if we’re retracing our steps. I figured scraps of material from my shirt would do, since it’s already ruined. But apparently every romance novel ever is a big fat liar. I’ll be sure to let the Sinsters know.”
He blinks, as if I’ve suddenly begun speaking a foreign language. “Romance novels?”
“You know.” I turn my attention to a jagged hole near the hem. “Where people are so desperate to have each other, they just can’t wait, so they rip each other’s clothes off. I’m sure that’swhy they call them ‘bodice rippers.’ Well, maybe bodices were a lot easier to tear, because my shirt sure as hell isn’t cooperating.”
The marked silence that falls lasts long enough that I glance up. Donovan’s standing stock-still, his gaze raking over me, heating as it goes. And then he moves, batting my hands out of the way. “At this rate, we’ll be here all night,” he says, his voice hoarse. “Allow me.”
“I—” I squeak out. The sound is swallowed by the shift of the ice again, triggered by his approach. Or maybe I just can’t hear my own voice over the pounding of my heart.
“It’s a good idea.” He clears his throat. “Press your palms to the wall, would you, so we don’t get crushed before we have a chance to carry it out?”
My mouth is dry again, but this time not from fear. Speechless, I obey, and he drops to his knees in front of me, in the sliver of space between my body and the block of ice. He fists the material of my shirt in both hands so tightly the muscles in his forearms flex, the apex of that curlicue of ink sliding into view. And then, God help me, he yanks.
Chapter
Forty-Two
My poor shirtdoesn’t stand a chance. It tears nearly in half. Cold air rushes over my skin as Donovan lifts his head and looks up at me. His lips part as he takes me in. His breath hitches.
Seeing him on his knees like this breaks something inside me. Possibly, my ability to form coherent thoughts. “I stand corrected,” I babble. “You, um, could teach garment-rending to authors of bodice rippers everywhere. I’ll be sure to alert the Sinsters, in case they want to invite you to do a demo at their next book club.” Or coven meeting. Whatever. Jesus, what is happening here?
I don’t think Donovan has heard a word I’ve said. His eyes are fixed on the expanse of skin that my torn shirt has revealed. And then, as if drawn by a magnetic force, he edges closer and presses his lips to my belly. He does it again and again, his dark hair brushing over my skin and sending shivers through me.
