“James, please,” I say desperately, faltering. “Something—happens to me—when you touch me—”
“Say it,” he says softly. He takes a step toward me and I seem to melt at the edges. “Tell me what happens to you when I touch you.”
I feel blood rush to my face, then elsewhere, everywhere. He’s watching me with an intensity that seems to reach inside of me.
“I lose control,” I whisper.
“No.” He swallows. “You don’t.”
I go still. Stare at him. “Yes,” I say, “I do—”
“Not yet,” he says, his voice rough. “This hasn’t even started, Rosabelle. You have no idea what I want from you. You haven’t lost control yet. Not even close.” His eyes darken. “But you will.”
These words bloom in my veins like fire, releasing a searing, exquisite torture all through my body. His gaze is unrelenting. I can’t seem to take a full breath. My heart is beating so hard it scares me.
He takes another step closer and I nearly make a sound.
A heavy, warm weight lands on my shoulders, and I realize, through this dizzying haze, that he’s given me his jacket. I back away from him on instinct, then slip my arms into theoversized sleeves without protest, my limbs aching in relief. The denim has been warmed by his own body heat, the article infused with the scent of his skin. I inhale him directly into my lungs, and the effect is so dislocating I nearly drop my gun.
Finally, with a few feet between us, I meet his eyes.
He’s still staring at me with a magnetized intensity; he’s almost smiling, except that his jaw is tight, his eyes drawn together. He looks almost like he’s in pain.
“Where am I?” I whisper.
James shucks the beanie off his head and steps toward me; I hold my breath as he tugs the soft hat over my hair, pulling it down gently over my ears. The warmth is instant. I want to tuck myself against him, rest my head against his heart.
Instead, I watch him look at me.
His hands skim my face as he draws away, first grazing my cheeks, then lingering along my jaw, and a sound builds in my throat. Feeling sweeps through me like a storm. I can’t hold it inside.
I cry out and stumble back.
James exhales into the cold, his breath like smoke. His eyes are charged and fathomless, the moonlight catching him in relief, glazing his edges. He turns away and he looks tightly wound; muscles tensing under skin.
Everything about him has become my favorite thing.
I never had a preference for blue eyes before I met him. I never knew I cared for freckles until I saw his face. I didn’t know I could love the way someone walked until I watched him enter a room. Each time I see him he seems to comeinto sharper focus, every facet honed, every detail more exquisite. It’s becoming harder to look him in the eye, to keep myself from touching him. I don’t know what I’m doing anymore. I don’t know why I’m encouraging these thoughts. This is unconscionable behavior.
I’m going home to die.
“I’m going to say this nicely, just once.” James looks at me. “Hand over your weapons.”
I take another step back, steady my heart.
Shake my head.
“This is getting old, Rosabelle,” he says. “My nerves are shot, I have to get going, and I don’t want to do this anymore. I’m tired of chasing you down and taking a bullet for it. There’s no point; you’re stuck here. Run for as long as you like. Shoot me as many times as you want. Try stabbing me again. It won’t matter. You can’t get out of here without my help. All you’re going to do is give me a bigger headache.”
“Then help me,” I say to him, taking yet another step back, trying to direct blood to my head. “Tell me where we are. Tell me how to get out of here.”
He looks up at the sky as if searching for strength. When he meets my eyes again he looks almost angry. “You need to go back to the house. Now.”
“You don’t understand,” I say to him. “James, if that vial falls into the wrong hands—”
“No, I’m not doing this again,” he says sharply. “I’ve asked you a thousand times to explain to me why you need that vial and you’ve never answered my questions. So unlessyou’re ready to tell me what it is and why you need it so badly, we’re done for the night. I’ll throw you over my shoulder, carry you back to the house, and feed you to Nazeera.”
“You wouldn’t.”
