Fuck, I am.
But it’s still in my best interest to keep him firmly outside my body,so wearing his T-shirt is the absolute worst thing I could’ve done.
Thankfully, it hangs several inches past my ass, but wearing nothing beneath still makes me feel incredibly exposed, like my skin has been peeled back, allowing the soft material to brush against every raw nerve. Everything about this situation fucking sucks, and what’s worse is that I only have myself to blame.
Hesitantly, I lift my stare to Dread's. His features seem to sharpen as his gaze slowly glides down my form, only to take his sweet time dragging it back up again. The second our eyes meet, several things happen at once. His jaw clenches until the muscle appears on the verge of splitting skin. He steps completely into the room, shutting the door behind him. The air thickens, filling with heat and tension—and possibly toxic fumes, too.
All I know is that I can’t fucking breathe, and he lookspissed. Any softness from the pool is nowhere to be found, and if his hair wasn't wet at his nape, I'd question if I imagined the whole thing.
So option one it is. He's back to hating me because of what I did—or rather,didn'tdo—after catching Lionel with Georgia Farrell, and he thinks I'm a fucking creep.
My heart drops, and anxiety swells in my stomach, but I steel my spine for whatever cruel words are going to come out of his mouth.
He's probably going to say I'm dirtying his shirt or tell me it's unflattering on my body.
“Get on the bed?—”
“Yeah, well, you’re an asshole.”
The ensuing silence is loud as I blink at him, my mouth flopping. I was wholly prepared for a derogatory remark and nothing else.
Especially not what the fuck actually came out of his mouth.
He arches his scarred brow, the thin white line cutting through it making him appear more intimidating than he has any right to be. Meanwhile, my entire face burns with embarrassment.
Clearing my throat, I bounce my gaze around the room as I say, “Okay, wow, this is awkward. I was totally expecting you to say something else.”
He nods slowly, glancing down my body in a way that tightens my stomach. I realize now I mistook the heat in his eyes for anger rather than lust.
“Get on the bed, Reverie.”
I shift uncomfortably, my fingers playing with the ends of the fabric,and I force myself to meet his stare with a tight expression.
“Are we sure we shouldn’t fight about the shirt instead?”
His tongue rolls to the side of his cheek, clearly becoming impatient.
“Do I need to come get you?”
My stomach flips, adrenaline flooding my system as I struggle with both the urge to listen and to revolt.
“Dread,” I whisper helplessly.
I don’t know what to do. His expectant stare borders on threatening, but we’re supposed to hate each other, for fuck’s sake.
Who cares if he just taught me how to swim? This shouldn’t even be a thing.
“This isn’t— We can’t do this again,” I try to reason, my tone cautious. He looks like he might pounce, and for the first time in my life, I just might run screaming if he does.
My muscles are tense as he silently regards me, only deepening my nervousness. I’m on edge, and even the slightest twitch of his finger might spook me. It’s like slowly climbing to the top of the roller coaster, and with each passing second, the anticipation builds until you’re somewhere between fearing it and just wanting it over so you can breathe again.
God, I don’t remember feeling like this with him before. I always stood my ground, even when he terrified me. So why is it now that I want to run? Why, when his intentions aren’t to cause me pain?
Because it’ll hurt more when he’s finished with you and breaks your heart.
I instantly crumple that thought into a ball and chuck it out the window. I reject any possibility he could hurt me like that.
That’s the one part of me I will never let him have.
