Page 165 of The Last Guardian

“Are you okay?” A hint of worry crept into his features as his gaze watched me, catching sight of my attire.

The soft cloth of my nightgown wasn’t enough to shield me from the wind, as I pulled the robe tightly around me in an attempt to hide myself with what little I had on me right now. His nostrils flared at my motion, his gaze grazing my movements.

“I’m sorry to disturb you in the middle of the night. I—” I paused to find my words, but the sight of him in his black garb and his piercing eyes made me lose my train of thought.

Why does this man have such an effect on me?

As delicate drops of rain fell in the darkness, melting with a cold wind, I tried to warm myself up with my arms.

“Come inside, it’s freezing out here.” Zaid extended his arm, inviting me to come in.

My feet moved across the cold wood as I passed the door to his quarters, feeling the warmth radiating from him as I drew near. The scent of salt, leather, and cedar amplified in the air, calling me to touch him.

As soon as that thought crossed my mind, I sped up my path to not linger near him for too long, to not reach for him.

My feet were so cold that the warmth of the inside sent a burning sensation through me when I sat on the couch.

The door closed behind me, and I gasped. His footsteps resounded on the wooden floor—deliberate, casual. Something flooded me from within, a warmth that only he could give me.

My instincts begged me to gaze at him, to drink in every detail of him. But I resisted the urge. Zaid cleared his throat as he shifted direction to go towards his desk.

“Drink?” Zaid asked.

I finally gave in and looked at him. Outside, under the moonlight alone, I hadn’t been able to see him clearly. But now, every detail snapped into focus as if he had been painted before me.

As if the world had stopped to show every ounce of him.

Only him.

Always him.

The black trousers that clung to his hips. The dark shirt casually fitted—just enough to trace the sculpted lines of his body. His lazy green eyes, half-lidded. His black hair pulled back, a few rebellious strands drifting over his forehead.

Wet strands. My mind stuttered. Had he been in the bath when I arrived?

Stars. I tried—tried so hard—not to picture him in the bath. Not to imagine water sliding over his body, not imagining his body at all.

But my breath hitched anyway, betraying me, my thundering heart. Zaid’s eyes flickered in rhythm with the beat of my pulse—clearly hearing it.

What in the Seven Hells was happening to me? Each time Zaid was around, all my survival instincts stopped.

“Uh, yes, please,” I managed, though my voice sounded softer than I had intended. I tore my gaze away from him, desperate for something—anything else—to focus on.

Unfortunately, my eyes landed on the drawn curtain, the one I knew concealed the bath behind it.

My imagination is not my friend.

My imagination is not my friend.

The sound of the liquid filling glasses echoed in my ears, making the room smaller.

Very small.

When Zaid walked near me, the faint scent of something clean, mixed with cedar, brushed past me. His soap.

Zaid stopped near my seat, handing me the glass. I took it, praying he couldn’t see the way my fingers trembled. Our fingertips grazed against each other, and my hand clanged on the glass, fighting not to drop it at the contact.

Zaid let go. The hand that had handed me the glass flexed, and he continued his walk. Not to the couch, though. He leaned against the wall.