“No,” Wyatt murmurs, agreeing. “It doesn’t.”
The admission immediately throws me off-center, making me look at him more thoroughly. I see the faint shadows under his eyes, along with the tension etched into his features. He’s aggravated and frustrated, obviously, but it doesn’t look entirely focused on me. Instead, those emotions seem to be targeted at himself.
I can’t find the words to say, and instead, the elevator doors slide open, exposing the dimly lit hallway beyond.
The carpet muffles the sound of our steps as he guides me forward again, and despite being too startled to react at first, I remind myself to resist. The moment I do, he sighs.
Then, without any warning, Wyatt shifts his grip and hauls me against his side, locking an arm around my waist. My feet barely touch the floor.
“Put me down!”
“Walk,” he says, not leaving any room for argument. “Or I won’t hesitate to carry you.”
Squirming, fury blazes through me, but he’s an unmovable wall of determined muscle. Every step presses me closer, and I brush against his chest while my hip fits against his in a way that makes my breath hitch despite myself. A light flush creeps into my cheeks.
I hate this. I despise how my body reacts before my brain can catch up, and how the heat emanating from him makes it even harder to think. This isn’t how I’m used to being handled.
Most men who gravitate around my family are careful and polished. They’re controlled, well aware that any wrong move can result in undesirable consequences. They hover at arm’s length and smile while biding their time until they get what they want.
But Wyatt doesn’t ask. He takes control and makes things happen.
Something about that realization sends a thrill through me, sharp enough to scare me more than I thought possible.
I force myself to be still, even if it pains me to.
“Fine,” I bite back, tugging my arm away in an attempt to both move on my own and regain some of my dignity. “I’ll walk.”
Wyatt loosens his hold, but doesn’t remove it completely, while his hand stays firm at my lower back, steering me down the hall. Every step feels charged and comes with a sense of anticipation that makes my stomach turn.
From our point of contact, I can feel how aggravated he is. How close he is to snapping.
Worse, I can feel the part of him that knows he did this to himself, and the weight of his mistake is pressing down on him just as heavily as the risks we face.
In a way, it almost makes me feel sorry for him. Almost.
Eventually, we reach a door at the end of the hall, and Wyatt pulls out a keycard from his pocket. He swipes it, then the lock clicks, and he pushes the door open.
Without looking back, he guides me inside the condo, hardly giving me the chance to take my surroundings in before he’s sweeping me deeper into the place. In a blink, I’m being pushed into a bedroom that’s both big, well-furnished, and immaculate. The king-sized bed is made with charcoal-colored sheets, the windows are covered in blackout curtains, the rug looks almost brand new, and nothing seems out of place. Still, the decorations are far and few in between, giving it a lack of softness.
Wyatt nudges me inside, but before he can close the door, I spin on him. “What are you doing?”
“Keeping you here.”
“You’re locking me in?” I question, brows pinching together.
His expression doesn’t change. “Just for the night.”
That riles up my anger even more. “Like hell you are.”
“Elena,” he murmurs, voice low enough to make me shiver. “I don’t want you wandering around a place you don’t know.”
I hardened my gaze at that. “I’m not a child.”
“No…you’re a liability.”
Just barely, I flinch at that, not liking what that implies. Of course, he notices, and something unreadable flickers in his gaze. Wyatt takes a quiet breath.
“Until things settle, this is the safest place for you.”
