Chapter 33
Chapter
Thirty-Three
Donovan doesn’t say a word on our way down in the elevator. He doesn’t so much as look at me on the five-minute walk to the historical society’s headquarters, a few blocks down Orchard Street. Ethan’s right: I can practically feel the chill radiating off him. It’s so strong, I have to fight a shiver with every step.
Or maybe that’s just the way being close to Donovan affects me. Because watching his shoulders shift beneath the pressed material of his button-down, seeing the sunlight glint off his blue-black hair…it makes me want to pin him up against the storefront of Brew Box and have my wicked way with him. Thank God Ethan is with us, because I don’t trust myself.
What the hell am I going to do on a freaking overnight getaway with him, where the entire purpose is for us to get to know each other better and learn how to get along? Maybe I can arrange to be bitten by a bat or a rabid dog or something. Because this little venture is doomed to go down in flames.
But no. I need to go. What better chance will I have to figure out who killed my parents? If the murderer is one of the people Ethan’s included in the retreat, then I’ll have the chance to investigate them up close. Which sounds great and all, but how will I tell if they’re guilty? It’s not like they’ll have a scroll-and-dagger tattooed on their forehead or a luggage tag that reads, “Blood Witches R Us. I’m the problem, it’s me.” And I can’t rely on my premonitions to tell me anything reliable: they only show me things that are about to happen, so unless whoever it is plans to conduct a blood sacrifice on our corporate retreat, I’m shit out of luck.
Impervious to the turmoil raging within me and the wall of ice that Donovan’s erected between us, Ethan chatters happily all the way down the street, all about how we’re going to have such an excellent time at the retreat, the setting is absolutely gorgeous, it’ll be exactly what we need. I make polite conversation, but I can’t seem to focus on anything for more than two seconds. Which is probably why I trip over an uneven piece of concrete and go hurtling through the air, one arm outstretched in a futile attempt to regain my balance, in the world’s worst impression of Wonder Woman.
There’s an instant when I’m honest-to-God airborne. And then I collide with something warm and solid and, along with whatever it is, go hurtling to the ground.
We land with a shriek (me) and an aggravated grunt of pain (the solid thing I’ve landed on, which, of course, turns out to be Donovan).
Fuck my life.
He’s taken the brunt of our fall and is lying on his back on the concrete. I’m on top of him, our chests pressed together and his hands gripping my hips. It’s the perfect position for doing a lot of things, none of which I a) should ever do with Donovan, and b) should be thinking about in front of my boss.
Donovan stares up at me, his eyes wide and shocked. His hair is mussed, and there’s a streak of dirt on his cheek. “What. The. Fuck,” he manages, his chest heaving as he tries to catch his breath.
An electric shock prickles through me, radiating from every point our bodies touch. Who knows—maybe my nervous system is shorting out. It would be preferable to having to live through the next few mortifying minutes. “I’m sorry,” I say, trying to wriggle away from him.
He glares, holding me still. “Don’t move,” he bites out, and a moment later, I realize why. I can feel him against me, even through the layers of my jeans and his khakis…which, I couldn’t help but notice this morning, fit as if they were made for him. They don’t leave a lot of room for error, and if our oh-so-sexy encounter against the office door was any indication, room is exactly what Donovan requires.
Shit, shit, shit. “Oh,” I squeak out, doing my best imitation of a statue. All I can think of is what he said in the gazebo: I wanted to pin you to the mirrored wall of that damn elevator and push up that little skirt and ravage the hell out of you. To see you wrecked just for me.
That prickling electricity heightens, raging through my entire body. Heat follows it, pooling low in my belly and between my legs. I wonder if Donovan can feel it, because his hands grip my hips even tighter. “Not. Helping,” he hisses.
Ethan is looming over us now, blocking out the sun. “Are you two okay?” he says, sounding like he’s suppressing a chuckle.
“I’m fine. Donovan, um, broke my fall.” I gesture down at him, in case Ethan hasn’t noticed that I’m straddling his data engineer like a bar’s mechanical bull on Tequila Tuesday.
Donovan shifts uncomfortably beneath me, which really doesn’t help. My muscles clench in response, and his grip tightens so much, I’m pretty sure it’s going to leave bruises. If we weren’t in public, sweet purple ponies only knows what would happen next.
Two things are certain: This man and I have combustible chemistry. And we should never, ever be alone with each other. Not even on a public sidewalk.
Let go of me, I telegraph to him with my eyes. His communicate an equally clear message: This is your fault. Also, bite me.
“That was quite the heroic move, Frost,” Ethan says, sounding cheerier than ever. “Didn’t know you had it in you. Anything broken?”
“I’m not a hero,” Donovan snaps, shifting me off him at last. “I was just walking, for Christ’s sake. She cannoned into me.” He spits the last words like a malediction.
“It was an accident,” I protest, getting gingerly to my feet and looking anywhere but at him. The last thing I want is to get an eyeful of Mr. Happy, concealed by his khakis or otherwise.
Donovan snorts. “Please. You’re a living, breathing agent of chaos.”
The last time he called me ‘chaos,’ it was an endearment. Now, it’s clear he means anything but. It stings, and I glare at him. Or at least I try to. I end up gaping, instead.
Mr. I-Probably-Iron-My-Underwear Frost is a disaster zone. His white button-down has come halfway untucked (probably a good thing, given the circumstances), and his khakis are ripped. Add the tousled hair and the streak of dirt, and he looks like he’s taken a ride on the Hot Mess Express, paying special treatment at every station along the way.
A giggle escapes my lips, and he glowers at me, eyes narrowing to slits of blue murder. “What?” he growls.
A shiver ripples through me again, this one unrelated to the incendiary sexual tension that flares between the two of us anytime we’re in the same vicinity. It’s easy to forget how big Donovan is, given that he’s usually ensconced in his ergonomic desk chair, muttering at his multiple monitors. But right now, disheveled and furious and at his full height, a foot away, he looks downright terrifying.
Cooper said Donovan was innocent. That he had nothing to do with the world of witches or magic. Certainly, he didn’t recognize the scroll-and-dagger symbol when I showed it to him. But I have no reason to believe anything Cooper says. Was I wrong to eliminate Donovan from the list of suspects that might somehow be connected to my parents’ death? Sure, he would’ve been too young then, but that doesn’t mean his family wasn’t responsible. What if he and Cooper weren’t enemies? What if they’re somehow in cahoots?
No. That makes no sense; why would the Blood Witches want to kill one of their own? Donovan is a victim here. Or a potential victim, anyway. My job is to keep him safe from me, not implicate him in the worst event of my life. Never mind that since the day I met him, my life has gone completely off the rails.
He’s just pissed off that my clumsiness resulted in humiliating both of us. And I don’t blame him. I want desperately to put his shirt to rights, to wipe the streak of dirt from his face, to stand on my tiptoes and whisper that I’ll make it up to him later. But 100 percent of that is a terrible idea.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” His brows have lowered now, thunderclouds descending over blue skies.
I do my best to pull myself together. “I’m not looking at you any way,” I tell him, just as Ethan says, “Can you blame her, Frost? I don’t think I’ve ever seen you with a damn hair out of place before, man. You took quite a beating in the name of chivalry. I mean, look at Rune, here.” He gestures at me. “Not so much as a wrinkle in that lovely silk shirt of hers. Maybe you should take up a career as a bodyguard.”
“Or an acrobat,” I offer. I don’t mean to say it, I swear. It just slips out.
What can I say? I babble when I’m anxious.
Donovan glares between the two of us, mutters something in which only the words, “Let’s get this over with” are audible, and storms off in the direction of the historical society, putting his clothes to rights as he goes.