"Jesus, Austin!" she hisses, eyes wide. "Are you trying to give me a heart attack?"
"I'm trying to keep you alive," I say, stepping into the room. I kick the door shut behind me. "There are wolves in these woods, Court. And worse things than wolves."
"I forgot," she says, her voice shaky. She stoops to pick up the screwdriver, bending at the waist.
The t-shirt rides up.
I see the creamy pale skin of her upper thighs. The softness of it. The curve leading to hips made to be held, widened, filled. A dark, primal instinct roars to life in the back of my skull—the breeding instinct plaguing me since she came back. My hands itch to grab those hips, to pull her back against me, to bury myself so deep inside her she forgets every year she spent away from me.
I force myself to breathe. Slow. Controlled. I’m the VP. I don’t lose control. I calculate.
"You forgot," I repeat, walking toward her. The room feels smaller with every step. "Careless."
She straightens up, clutching the screwdriver like a weapon. "I'm not used to living in a fortress, Austin. In the city, I have a doorman."
"You don't have a doorman here," I say, stopping just inside her personal space. I’m close enough to smell her now. Lavender—warm and slightly herbal. The best fucking thing I’ve ever smelled. "You have me."
She looks up, tilting her head back to meet my gaze. The height difference is significant. I tower over her, broad where she is soft, scarred where she is pristine. She swallows hard, her throat working.
"I didn't ask for a bodyguard," she whispers, though no heat backs the words. Just a trembling awareness.
"Didn't ask for a handyman either," I say, glancing at the sconce. "But you got both."
I reach out, not for her, but for the wall beside her head. I plant my hand flat against the peeling floral wallpaper, leaning down until our faces are inches apart. Trapping her. My body radiates heat toward her, and I watch the flush creep up her neck, staining her skin pink.
"I told you I'd check the wiring," I murmur, eyes dropping to her lips. Full, parted slightly. "This old place is a fire hazard. One spark, and the whole thing goes up."
"The wiring is fine," she breathes. Her eyes dart to my mouth, then back up. She’s lying. She knows exactly what kind of spark I’m talking about.
"Is it?" I challenge.
I shift my weight, bringing my hips closer. I’m not touching her, not yet, but the air between us is charged, thick with static. Heat rolls off her body in waves.
"Austin," she says, her voice wrecked. "Why are you doing this?"
"Doing what?"
"This. Being here. Taking over my house. Looking at me like..." She trails off, unable to say it.
"Like what, Court?" I push. "Say it."
She shakes her head, looking away. "Like I'm something you're planning to eat."
I let out a low, dark chuckle. "Eating is for survival, sweetheart. This?" I move my hand from the wall to catch a lock of her hair, rubbing the silky strands between my rough, calloused fingers. "This is hunger. Starvation."
A tremor rocks her frame.
"We were friends," she says, voice fragile as glass, hands rising to rebuild the invisible wall she always uses when the spark between us flares. "Best friends."
"Were," I correct her. "Past tense. We were kids who scraped knees and shared secrets. Then you left." My voice hardens. The old wound throbs. "You ran, Courtney. You left me here."
"I had to," she defends, eyes snapping back to mine, flashing with fire. "You know why I left. It was dangerous. Violent."
"And now you're back," I say, stepping closer until my chest brushes the tips of her breasts. She gasps, freezing. "And it's still dangerous. Still violent. But I'm not the boy who watched you drive away anymore. I'm the man who runs the violence."
I drop the lock of hair and let my knuckles graze down her cheek. Her skin is impossibly soft. Silk against concrete. I trace the line of her jaw, down her throat, resting my hand over her pulse point. It hammers. Thump-thump-thump. Like a trapped bird.
"I missed you," I admit, the words tearing out before I can stop them. A weakness, but I don’t care. "Every day. For ten years."
