CHAPTER SEVEN
Lara
I cling to Brokk’s bare chest, a scream tearing from my throat. Oh, god. Oh, god. I don’t want to die!
We fall for a split second, then there’s a jolt that jerks my gaze upward.
Brokk’s free hand grips a vine!
A startled huff of laughter bursts from my lips. No fucking way! I write about things like this all the time, but I never imagined actually doing it.
We pendulum outward into empty air, then swing back toward the cliff.
Elton yells at us from the tent window, but my heart’s pounding too hard to make out what he’s saying.
Because Klaus stands beside him, lifting his gun.
Right as a shot rings out, Brokk loosens his grip, and we fall.
My stomach flies up into my throat as another choked scream escapes me. I wrap my arms around his neck, and my knees grip his sides in a panicked scramble for stability, as if that’s going to help. He’s fucking falling too, Lara! Get a grip.
After a few seconds, we’re well below the level of the tent, and Brokk tightens his hand on the vine just enough to slow our descent to something slightly less stomach churning.
How? How is he holding up both our weights with only one arm?
And how damned long is this vine?
God, some days I wish I didn’t have such a good imagination, because it’s working on overdrive right now, coming up with twenty billion things that can go wrong.
We crash into the tops of trees, and I feel like I’m seeing things, because I swear it seems like the plants are reaching for us and helping to break our fall! Energy sizzles in the air, an electric tingling such as I’ve never felt before.
Vines and branches continue to catch us, slowing us until, by the time we hit the ground, we’re not moving nearly as fast as we should. Brokk takes the brunt of the blow, landing on his back, his body cradling mine.
I lie still for several stunned seconds, clinging to Brokk, my body unwilling to believe we’re out of danger. Finally, I force my legs to unclench from his sides and straighten them, my heels snagging on the vines.
“How? What?” Ugh, when did I lose the ability to form complete sentences? I tug my foot, working it loose. My hands slide across his naked chest. “How did those vines and branches do that? And why aren’t you wearing a shirt?”
“It was bright white and stood out far too much.” He gives me a smirk. “Besides, I got the idea you like my bare chest.”
“What?” Oh, god, he can tell? I lie, “No, I don’t.”
“Then why do you keep stroking it?”
My hands freeze in place. I bite back a groan. He’s right—I was stroking his chest. How mortifying! My cheeks heat. Dammit, I’m probably beet red by now. My shit poker face extends to having super-obvious blushes.
A few shouts call out from overhead, and Brokk’s expression hardens into the steely look I’ve seen staring out at me from my book covers. I always thought it was acting, part of being a model, but it looks authentic on him, as if this is some hidden part of him finally let free. It’s a dangerous look, promising a world of pain for whoever crosses him.
“We need to move,” he growls.
“Right.” I nod.
He lifts an eyebrow. “So, were you going to get off me?”
Shit, I’m still on top of him! There’s that blush again. I roll off, squirming with embarrassment, and struggle to my feet.
He leaps up beside me and does a slow spin, coming to a halt and pointing. “That way.”
“What’s that way?”
“I have no idea. But it’s directly away from the camp, and that’s good enough for now.”
“You can tell where the camp is?” The fall got me completely twisted around.
“Yes.” He shoots me a questioning look.
“I’m not good with directions.” I shrug. “I grew up in a small town in the middle of a forest, so you’d think I’d pick up something. But I never did.”
“Your heroines always know where they’re going.”
I startle. “You’ve read my books?”
“I like knowing what I’m putting my face on.”
Oh. That makes sense. Still, a niggle of disappointment goes through me. I’d kind of hoped…
His finger lifts my chin until I meet his eyes. “I love your books.”
A soft whoosh of air leaves me. Brokk’s sincerity brings a soft smile to my lips. Like any author, I want people to like my books, but knowing he likes them makes warmth curl through my chest.
More shouts call out, Elton’s voice rising above the others. I can’t make out words, but the tone sounds a bit manic. Guess his day isn’t going like he expected. Join the club, asshole.
“Come on.” Brokk grips my arm and pulls me forward.
I take one step in the heels and wobble.
He jerks to a halt, glaring down at the shoes as if they’ve offended him. “You can’t walk in those.” He crouches, a foot-long knife appearing in one hand while the other reaches for my foot.
“What are you going to do?”
“I’m going to cut off the heels.”
“Wait! No!” I gape down at him, horrified.
How to explain? Years of barely making rent still haunt me. This convention, this makeover—they’ve all been my first real taste of success. The designer shoes and catsuit mean more than money—though, god, they’re still a shit ton of money—they’re symbols that I can actually make it as an author after years of hearing that I needed to give up on my dream.
I don’t know how to admit that, so I focus on the money. “These heels cost more than the first book I published ever made.”
He grunts and reaches for large palm leaves and several vines. Brokk lifts my leg, slides the Christian Loubouton stiletto off, and sets my foot on a stack of leaves. That strange feeling of electricity tingles through the air again. I can’t quite see how he does it, but he turns the layers of palm leaf into a little bootie, held to my ankle by vines. He repeats the process with my other foot, shoves my discarded heels into pockets on his cargo pants, and stands.
“Where did you learn to do that?” I ask.
“Pixies and sprites make leaf clothing all the time, so I knew it was possible.” It’s his turn to shrug. “I’ve simply never had large enough leaves to work with before.”
I wiggle my toes. Instead of being loose bags flapping around, he somehow got the palm fronds to mold to my feet. That should be impossible, right?
“You don’t need to keep doing that. You don’t have to keep talking as if you’re from Faerie, like a character in one of my books.” I wave a hand, taking in the heavy jungle all around us. “None of your fans are going to pop out from behind a tree with a phone and catch you if you drop the act.”
“I will tell you something now. You can choose to believe me or not, but know this.” He steps close, his dark eyes boring into mine. “I do not lie to you. I will never lie to you, Lara.”
He says my name like a kiss, his tongue gliding over the syllables with care.
My heart skips, and deep in my gut, a part of me does believe him. But how is that possible?
“Come. It will be dark soon. We need to find a place to make camp.”
Brokk leads the way, shoving vines and plants out of our path with his large size. I keep my eyes focused on the ground, because even in these heelless booties, I’m not exactly action girl. I may write women going on adventures, but that’s only because I’m not the type to actually have one.
No, I like for life to be orderly, to follow lists. I bat a fern frond from my face and mutter, “None of this is on my list.”
“Maybe you need some new lists,” Brokk says, shooting a grin over his shoulder.
“Sure. I’ll add ‘get kidnapped by a megalomaniac’ to the top of my to-dos right away.”
He growls, “That will never happen again.”
“You can’t say that. It sure as hell happened today.”
“I will not allow it.” He stops and spins to face me. “I will protect you.”
“So you’re going to be my cover model and my bodyguard?” God, it’s not the worst idea ever. He certainly handled himself well back at the camp.
“Yes,” he says with pure conviction. Then he heads into the jungle again, leading me through a tunnel of dense vegetation that seems to bend out of his way. But that’s impossible, right? He’s simply so big and strong he leaves an impression on the world as he moves through it.
We continue on for what feels like hours but probably isn’t. By the time we stop at a wide log, I’m panting and parched. What can I say? Sitting hunched over a laptop for twelve hours a day isn’t exactly exercise.
Brokk finds little pools of water that have been trapped on leaves. He makes me a funnel, and as soon as I wrap my lips around the smaller end, he pours sweet, sweet water into my mouth.
Searching overhead, he finds some fruit that look like someone crossed an avocado with a kiwi. With a quick slice of his knife, he splits several of them in two, exposing orange insides dotted with gray seeds. A bright, tangy scent fills the air.
“What are they?” I ask as I accept a couple of the halves from him.
“I’m not sure. I only know they’re safe to eat.”
How can he know they’re safe if he doesn’t know what they are?
I lick at the pulp, and the tart taste of citrus and pineapple bursts across my tongue with familiarity. “I know what these are! These are passion fruit. I had a mojito flavored like this at that Cuban restaurant near the convention center.”
“Passion fruit.” He slurps down half a fruit with a suggestively wet sound and smacks his lips. “I like the name.”
I stare transfixed as his tongue scoops out another portion of fruit. Good god, how long is that thing? My thighs clench.