Page 13 of Flawed Fate
“Then someone else was responsible,” I insist. It’s not easy keeping my emotions in check, but come on. Do they really need to make up these lies to justify what they’ve done? “Someone at that facility wasn’t following protocol. If what you’re saying is true—and I’m not saying it is—my dad didn’t know about it. He would never allow it.”
Cole stares at me for a long time. There’s something pitying in his expression, making me want to scream. I don’t need his pity. I need him to understand he’s wrong. That they’re all wrong about my dad.
“Okay,” he finally replies in a quiet voice. Not agreeing, but deciding not to push it, and it makes me grind my teeth.
We don’t talk much after that. He ties my wrist again and settles back into the chair. I lie on my back and stare at the ceiling, where shadows dance and move as the sun climbs in thesky. Time does that weird stretchy thing where minutes feel like hours, and I think about Dad. Whether he’s figured out where I am yet, and when he’s coming.
He’s coming. Of course he is.
Hours pass. I drift in and out, floating in that gray space where thoughts don’t quite form all the way. At some point, I hear voices downstairs, maybe a baby cry, a door opening and closing, footsteps on stairs. Normal house sounds. It’s strange how normal it all seems.
Then the bedroom door opens, and everything in me lights up.
He’s back.
Declan steps into the room, and Cole stands, and they do that silent brother-communication thing where a whole conversation happens in a look.
Cole leaves. The door shuts. And it’s us again.
He looks better. Still tired, but more alert. He’s changed clothes, showered maybe. His hair is damp. He smells like soap and underneath that, like him. That warm, clean, sweet scent that makes my lungs want to expand until they crack my ribs open.
I’m glad he’s back. The force of it startles me. My heart is doing something fast and fluttery, and my skin is prickling; heat is climbing up my neck, which is—what? What is this?
He sits in the chair. Those green eyes, steady and searching, land on me and stay there. I feel pinned by them in a way that isn’t scary. It should be scary, right? This should all be terrifying.
“You look better,” he observes in a low voice that tickles my ears and makes me wonder if he could read aloud to me. I don’t even care what.
“I feel better.” My voice comes out weird. Breathy. I clear my throat. “Can I take a shower?”
He studies me for a second, then nods before getting up and untying me. His fingers brush the inside of my wrist where the rope was, and a jolt goes through me that makes me suck in a breath.
He notices. His jaw tightens.
I stand. Steadier than last night, though my legs still feel shaky. He walks me the three steps to the bathroom, and I go in, while he stays in the doorway.
“The door stays open,” he reminds me.
“I know.” I turn on the hot water in the tub and let it steam up the small room while I unbutton the flannel and peel it off, then leave it folded loosely on the closed toilet lid.
He’s still behind me. He hasn’t gone back to the chair so I can have a minute or two of privacy. It should make my skin crawl, having him watch me.
It doesn’t. Which is even worse.
I’m way too aware of him. I don’t even want to cover up, when I’ve never been naked in front of a man in all my life. Especially not a stranger who’s holding me captive after kidnapping me from my home in the middle of the night. I should want to cover up, or at least ask him to turn his back. Right?
Instead, I pull my shirt over my head. Push my shorts down and step out of them.
And I don’t feel afraid, rather something else entirely. Something hot and restless that’s been building since he walked back into the room. Since before then, even. When I was half out of it, and he carried me. When his arms felt like the safest place in the world.
I glance back at him before stepping into the shower.
He’s not looking away. His eyes are dark, pupils blown wide, and his hands are at his sides, but his fingers are curled into fists. And…
He’s hard. I can see it straining against his jeans. This huge, powerful shifter, who could break me in half without trying, is standing in the doorway of this tiny bathroom, visibly turned on, with his jaw clenched like he’s fighting a war with himself.
Instead of feeling afraid or threatened, the way a normal person would, heat pools low in my belly so fast it almost takes my knees out.
What iswrongwith me?
