But I get nothing. Not even an acknowledgement that I’ve spoken.
I set down the book and stand. “Skylar.”
“I heard you.” She still doesn’t look at me as she pulls vegetables from the small refrigerator and sets them on the counter. “I’m choosing not to respond.”
“That’s mature.”
“I don’t owe you maturity. I don’t owe you anything.”
Fair enough. I lean against the doorframe and watch her chop carrots with more force than necessary. She’s changed out of her work clothes, and she’s wearing soft pants and a loose sweater that keeps sliding off one shoulder every time shemoves. I try not to notice the curve of her neck or the way her hair falls across her back in a thick braid.
I try. I fail.
“I can help with dinner,” I offer.
“I don’t want your help.”
“You’ve made that clear.”
“And yet you still offered.” She finally looks at me, and the anger in her eyes almost hides the exhaustion underneath. “What part of ‘stay away from me’ was unclear?”
“I’m not going to let you get killed, Skylar.”
“I made it ten years without your protection. I think I can manage.”
“That was before Rafe knew you existed.”
She turns back to her vegetables and dismisses me with the set of her shoulders. I know I should give her the space she’s asking for and retreat to another part of the cabin where I won’t have to smell her shampoo or watch her hands move or remember what it felt like when those hands used to touch me.
But I can’t make my feet move.
She’s beautiful. She’s always been beautiful, but the years have only made it worse. The softness of her curves and the strength in her frame, and the way she carries herself like she knows exactly who she is. I spent a decade trying to forget her face, and now it’s all I can see.
The mate bond throbs between us, incomplete and demanding. I can feel her presence like a second heartbeat and sense the edges of her emotions bleeding into mine. Anger, yes. But underneath that, something else. Something that makes herbreath catch when I step closer and sends her pulse racing even as she pretends I don’t exist.
She wants me. She doesn’t want to want me, but she does. And just that thought alone makes my cock stir to life.
“You should eat something,” she says without turning around, but I catch the slight tremor beneath the words. “There’s enough for two.”
I have to suppress a smirk, knowing she can feel my arousal.
“I thought you didn’t want me around.”
“I don’t. But I’m not cruel enough to let you starve while I eat in front of you.” She gestures toward the table. “Sit down. Don’t talk to me. We’ll get through this meal, and then you can go back to the couch.”
I sit because it’s the closest thing to an olive branch she’s offered since the ceremony.
She finishes preparing dinner and carries two plates to the table. The food smells good, like some kind of stir fry with vegetables and rice, and my stomach reminds me that I haven’t eaten since breakfast. We eat in silence for several minutes, and I watch her the way I’ve been watching her all day. Taking in every detail. Memorizing every movement.
She catches me looking.
It happens three times in the span of ten minutes. Quick glances stolen when she thinks I’m focused on my food. Her eyes darted to my face and then away again before I can meet them. The third time, our eyes lock for half a second, and the mate bond roars to life with such force that I have to grab the edge of the table to keep from crossing to her side.
She feels it too. I see it in the way her lips part and the way her chest rises with a quick breath and the way her fingers tighten around her fork.
“Stop looking at me like that,” she demands.
“Like what?”
