Page 50 of Cold Mercy

But fuck yes. I did like it. The memory alone makes my stomach flip. He’s fucking magnetic when he drops the mask, and he knows it. He knows exactly how to make me want him even when I want to punch him. But it’s better this way. Better that it stayed an “almost.”

After the cake is finally chosen (praise every god alive), we split up into two groups: the “two idiots” duo goes to the kitchen, and Elizabeth and I sit on the couch plotting everything and nothing. A few hours later, I politely announce I have to go.

“Great! I’ll go with you. I came with James, so I don't have a ride home.” Reed immediately says.

He actually thinks he's funny.

“You can run behind the car.” I laugh out loud.

“No need, I will drive. I have your keys, so unless you intend to walk home barefoot, you’re stuck with me.”

I stare at him. This wedding better happen soon, for example, tomorrow.

What will they force next week? Toilet paper testing?

I turn to James.

“Can I borrow your car?”

James shrugs. “And how will you get it back here? No, Soph, just go with Thomas. He’s not as bad as you say.”

Really? Even him?

“See, Sophia? Only you have these moods.” Reed smirks.

If I weren’t sober, I’d ram his head through the wall. But of course I'm polite and nice, so I just head out.

“We are driving to my house, Reed. I am not your taxi service.”

“Fine. Cold Spring it is.”

The drive is not comfortable at all. We drive in silence for the first few minutes, but the air inside the car is so thick it feels like a physical weight. I stare out the window, trying to ignore his presence, but it’s impossible.

“You know,” he says suddenly, his voice low in deliberate provocation. “For someone who claims to feel nothing, you’re gripping that door handle like it’s the only thing keeping you from jumping me.”

I snap my head toward him. He’s looking at the road, but a faint, arrogant smirk plays on his lips.

“I’m gripping it because you drive like a maniac,” I shoot back. “And don’t flatter yourself. I’m just trying to survive the ride.”

“Liar,” he murmurs, shifting gears with a rough motion that draws my eye to his hand. “You’re tense, I can feel it from here. You’re sitting there trying to convince yourself you hate me, but your body is telling a wholly different story.”

“My body is annoyed, Reed. There’s a difference.”

He chuckles, dark and low.

“Is that what we’re calling it now? Annoyance?” He glances at me, his eyes dropping to my crossed legs for a fraction of a second. “Because back at the house, you looked at me like you wanted to claw my eyes out...or rip my shirt off. I couldn’t quite tell which one would happen first, princess.”

Princess, princess, sitting tight, dreaming of his hands all night. Hate the smirk but want the touch. You hate that you want him this much.

My face heats up, but I refuse to give him the satisfaction of looking flustered. Instead, I turn fully toward him, giving him a look dripping with arrogance.

“Don’t flatter yourself, Reed,” I say, my voice smooth and biting. “If I wanted that shirt off, it would be on the floor already, and you wouldn't be doing a damn thing to stop me.”

The air in the car changes instantly.

His hands tighten on the steering wheel so hard the leather creaks. He doesn't look at me, but his jaw locks, a muscle feathering under the skin.

“Keep talking and—” he warns, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous growl.