Page 46 of Folds
“Don’t,” Elias spits the word out like a snarl, but I can tell he’s holding himself back.
“Or what?” I shoot back, my pulse loud in my ears. “You’ll grab me again? Threaten me?”
“Auburn,” he warns. My name in his mouth makes me physically ill.
“No.” The word is sharp, final. “You don’t get to talk to me like that.”
Elias’s eyes flare, and he opens his mouth, but before he can speak, the air shifts.
Rowan moves.
Not quickly. Not urgently. Just a single step forward. I probably wouldn’t have even noticed if not for the fact that it somehow forces Elias to take one step back.
“Careful,” Rowan says breezily, though the word carries weight. “I wouldn’t threaten her again if I were you.”
Elias’s jaw tightens. “Stay out of this.”
“I could,” Rowan replies, his tone almost amused. “But I don’t want to.”
I turn slightly, my attention on Rowan as the tall man leans forward, picking up the flower off the counter, then blowing onit gently.
“That’s a good instinct,” Rowan murmurs as he takes a final step, reclaiming the space between us. I’m fully aware the sheriff is still fuming somewhere behind me, but I can’t look away from the calm man and his pale green eyes. “Ignore him, and maybe he’ll get the hint and go away.”
He moves like shadow, smooth and deliberate, brushing my hair back from my face as his knuckles graze my cheekbone. Then he smiles at me, that beaming smile that makes my knees weak as he places the flower back behind my ear.
“Auburn. You’re having dinner with me.” Elias barks out the words, but they are distinctly lacking teeth.
“No, she’s ending a coerced date, Carston.” Rowan pauses, looking to me before he continues. “Assuming that is what you want, Auburn.”
I nod vehemently.
I don’t need to turn around to imagine the purple rage that must be building on the sheriff’s face, or the way he yanks open the door to storm out.
“One last thing, Elias.” I cock my head, my innate desire for the fuming man to be gone wars with the curiosity of what could possibly be worth delaying his exit. Then steady fingers gently wrap around my hand, bringing it up enough for me to catch the fresh purple bruising forming on my dark skin. “If you ever touch her again, I’ll kill you.”
A chill washes over me; if Elias reacts, it’s not audibly. Seconds later, the gentle whoosh of the door closing is the only sound that makes the angry heat in my temples start to cool. My heart still throws itself viciously against my ribcage, though, probably because of the fact that Rowan is still holding my hand, his thumb brushing over the tender skin near the bruise so gently that it barely registers.
“What are you?”
His touch stills, but he doesn’t drop my hand.
“Rude, but valid, and complicated.” He gestures around us, reminding me again of my surroundings. “Probably not the bestplace to get into it. For right now, I’m your sleazy sheriff repellent. Good enough?”
I open my mouth to protest, but close it just as quickly. Of everyone I’ve met in Drayring Valley the last year, I can count on one hand those who have earned a bit of trust from me, and he is one of them.
“Good enough.”
I expect him to move, or at least to drop my hand, but he doesn’t, and the moment only serves to make me even more hyperaware of his touch. He is far too factual for a man who formed out of shadow. The contact makes my skin heat, as though electricity is flowing between us.
I’m not sure if it’s that, or the way his gaze drops to my mouth, that has me pressing my thighs together as I fight the urge to react. It occurs to me that this might be the most physical contact we’ve ever shared. It’s magnetic.
“I really want to kiss you.” I fail to keep my soft gasp in response contained behind my teeth; the words have an irreversible effect on my body. I want that. I want that very, fucking, much. I’ve imagined it more times than I can count.
He moves with my nod, an arm snaking around my waist, his face dipped down, inches away from mine. His lips are close enough that I can smell the sweet spice of peppermint on his breath.
“But you’ll need to ask me for it,” he murmurs into the space between us as every synapse in my brain misfires, leaving me dizzy and overwhelmed with his presence.
“You’re making a lot of assumptions.” My retort is very weak considering the way I am melting into his touch, but it feels necessary. It’s not that I’m historically wired to not act recklessly on occasion, I do firmly believe in kissing pretty boys for the plot, especially ones that have starred in a fantasy or two hundred, but usually, there isn’t so much internal and consuming turmoil.
