Page 60 of When She Tempts (The Fallen)
But why?
An outlandish fantasy grips me. It’s crazy, but my body reacts to it nonetheless, a wave of electricity rolling from the top of my head all the way down to my toes. My belly bursts with butterflies.
What if Giorgio…has liked me all along?
Just formulating that thought feels like I’m hovering my foot off the edge of sharp cliff. It’s dangerous to entertain that kind of hope.
But what if it’s true? What if my unrequited crush isn’t so unrequited after all?
What if all those long looks, the lingering touches, the unexpectedly sweet things he’s said to me weren’t just because of his concern for my well-being or because of his duty to my brother? What if they were because of somethingmore?
Something sparks to life inside of me. It pulses inside my chest, like an organ that’s been dormant but has finally turned on.
I slide the book back into the drawer, close it shut, and slip out into the hall.
In the kitchen, Giorgio’s lying in the same position I left him.
I approach him, my steps slowing the closer I get, while my pulse does the opposite. The adrenaline of getting one over him has faded, and nervous uncertainty ripples beneath my skin.
Did I take it too far?
Does he really like me?
What will he say when he wakes up? Will he remember what he almost did right before the tea took effect?
Running to the living room, I get him a pillow and a blanket and spend the next few minutes doing whatever I can to make him more comfortable. The fact that he doesn’t even stir through the entire ordeal plants a seed of worry in the back of my head. What if he drank too much?
I eye the pot of remaining kava resting on the counter and press my fingertips to a thick vein in his neck. His pulse is steady, but his skin feels clammy and a little too warm despite the fact that he’s lying on the cold floor.
I undo the top two buttons of his shirt and tug it open in an attempt to cool him down. My eyes drift over his muscular chest, and I count his slow, steady breaths.
One.
He didn’t have to get involved with me when he brought me here.
Two.
He could have left me sulking alone in my room, but he didn’t. Hesawme. While I was trying so hard to avoid myself, he faced me head-on.
Three.
It was intentional. The phone. The lessons. The way he’s paid attention to me. All of it designed to fix me.
Four.
The backs of my eyes sting. I slip my palm under his shirt and press it over his heart, absorbing his heat and wishing I could find some answers in the beat.
Suddenly, his peaceful expression morphs into a grimace. “No,” he mutters.
I jerk my hand away as if I’ve been burned.
He shakes his head, his eyes still shut. “No, you can’t leave her there. She doesn’t belong there.”
My brows furrow. I don’t think he’s talking to me. He’s having a bad dream.
His expression grows more and more distressed, and anguish squeezes around my lungs. I brought this onto him.
Tucking my feet under me, I use all of my strength to lift the upper half of his body and move it so that his head can rest on my lap.
