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His eyes narrow as he studies my face before dropping to my cheeks.

“You’re blushing.”

He looks genuinely confused, as if he can't figure out why this interaction has suddenly become so fucking strange.

“I’m cold.” I glare at him. “Get off.”

I push his chest again, and he finally sits up, lifting his weight off me.

Before I can stand, his fingers close around my arm.

“I can walk.”

“I know.”

“Then let go. I don’t need help.”

“I know that too.”

“Then let go.”

He ignores me and pulls me upright with such effortless strength that my boots barely touch the ground before I’m standing.

I straighten my coat, trying to salvage what little dignity I have left.

He doesn't even look winded.

Of course he doesn’t.

Before I can take a step away, he bends down.

“What are you doing now?” I growl.

He lifts me.

Actually lifts me.

One arm slides beneath my knees, the other behind my back, and suddenly my boots are dangling above the snow.

I stare at him in disbelief.

“Khaos! Put me down. Right now!”

“I can walk.”

“You’re slipping, and I don’t need the heat that’ll come down on my ass if something happens to America’s Icy Sweetheart.”

“Oh, please!” I struggle against him, pushing at his chest. “Put me down.”

“No.”

“Put me down. Now.”

He ignores me and carries me through the snow like I weigh nothing. Snow catches in my hair and clings to his black coat, but his hold never falters.

I hate how easily he carries me, how warm he feels despite the freezing air, and how my hands instinctively clutch his coat.

Most of all, I hate that I’m not fighting harder.