“I don’t care. I don’t want your help,” I answer, knowing how stupid that sounds when I’m literally incapable of lifting the bag.
“Trina,” he says, and the even, reasonable tone sounds so fake and condescending, I can’t take another second of it.
“Stop it,” I hiss, taking a few steps back. “What’s your problem? Is this attitude because I said I didn’t want to sleep with you?”
Owen looks at me, and his lip twitches as if he’s about to make another light remark, but he shakes his head instead. “Idon’t know… I just didn’t think sleeping with me would be that bad,” he says, shrugging.
I stare at him, folding my arms across my chest and feeling my whole body closing up. “Are you kidding me?”
“No, not right now,” he replies with a hint of a smile.
“Be serious just for a moment, please,” I say. “Do you realize what you’ve done to me—to my life? And now you think I’ll just sleep with you, after all of that?”
He frowns. “I understand—kind of. I had to do what I did; it’s important to save my pack.”
“You could have asked me.”
“Would you have believed me?”
“Probably not,” I admit, realizing that Owen and Sadie could have explained it to me in detail, and I still wouldn’t have believed it without seeing proof of the supernatural.
And even then, would I have come here at all?
“I felt that action was needed, immediately,” Owen says. “I’ve never felt that way before, as if something terrible would happen if I didn’t follow my instincts in that instant.”
“Owen. You fucking kidnapped me, and from what I can gather, you planned to lock me up in your spare room and never let me out.”
“Well, I had to keep you with me. At least until we figured out the catalyst for breaking the curse—and I’m pretty sure that’s got something to do with sex.”
As I look into his extremely serious, sincere face, I realize that he doesn’t actually understand what he’s done.
He’s so powerful and arrogant that this was just his right… Good God, was he really going to keep me locked up for the rest of my life?
Unconsciously, I take a step back.
“I really didn’t think sex would be a big deal,” he says, shrugging. “I’ve never heard any complaints before.”
You arrogant prick.
“You look tired,” he says. “I’ll bring your bags in and put them in your room if you want to have a shower and unwind.”
His suggestion takes me by surprise, and even though I want to argue more, I really am tired, so I grudgingly accept and head inside without saying another word.
I just want to get away from him.
I feel kind of shell-shocked, and by the time I get in the shower, my hands are shaking.
I’m stuck in this house with him, and I don’t trust him. This is hell.
I close my eyes, letting the warm water drum down onto my face and neck, relaxing me. My mind flicks back over the events of the day, an unconscious process I’m not really aware of. Whenever Owen appears in my memory, I find myself lingering.
With my eyes still closed, I run my hands over my body with the soap, feeling a rising heat inside me that has nothing to do with the warm water. I see Owen lifting my heavy bags into the car, his arms and shoulders bulging as he tosses the suitcase, and his legs flexing against the tight jeans when he bends over.
A low moan rises in my throat, and suddenly my own hands betray me, slowly caressing my skin, running over mybreasts, and teasing across my belly as I think of that moment when we were standing close together and I felt like he was going to grab me and kiss me.
The realization, when it comes, is as painful as a knife through the chest.
It’s not that he’s attractive—it’s thatIfind him attractive.
