Chapter 40
Chapter
Forty
I shriek as we fall through the air. Donovan’s grip on me is so tight, I’m pretty sure it’s going to leave bruises. But I cling to him just as tightly. If we’re going to die, we might as well do it together. And I can think of worse ways to leave this world than in his arms.
The red haze teases at the edge of my vision, a premonition threatening to break through. Our day will come echoes in my ears as we plunge downward, the heat of the Hall of Mirrors dispelled by a blast of cold wind that plasters my torn shirt to my body and sends a shiver racing through me. I squeeze my eyes shut, press my face against Donovan’s chest, and brace.
We tumble through the air for another long moment. Two. And then we hit, with an impact that steals the air from my lungs and forces a sharp grunt from Donovan. But this time, I take the brunt of our fall, and what I crash into is…soft. Also, freezing.
Donovan is swearing again, struggling to catch his breath between some of the most creative expletives I’ve ever heard. He’s also on top of me, every inch of his solid body pressed against mine. My fingers are knotted in the back of his Henley, his arms cradling me. It’s ridiculous, I know, but part of me doesn’t want to find out where we are or figure out what to do next. I want to stay here with him, just like this, premonition be damned, and pretend we’re in the bedroom of my cottage or against his office door or in a different reality entirely.
Donovan’s litany of curses trails off. “Rune?” he says instead. And oh God, the sound of my name in his raspy voice. It does something to me. I want to curl up inside it. I want to record it, so I can listen to it again and again.
And so I don’t move. Maybe it’s cheating, but I don’t care. I want to keep him close to me. I want to hear him say my name again, when it’s not followed by an accusation, but filled with possibility. And sure enough, he does.
“Rune? Are you okay?” He strokes my hair, his touch tentative and feather-light. And there’s that electricity again, lighting every one of my nerve endings on fire.
I couldn’t pretend to be unconscious any longer if I tried. “I’m here,” I say, and open my eyes.
We’re in some kind of...snowbank. That’s the best I can do, except snow isn’t soft, not when it’s packed together like this. Whatever this is made of feels like a feather bed, if feather beds were icy cold. But I don’t take in much more than that, because Donovan’s staring down at me, his face inches from mine. When my eyes meet his, he jerks back, like I’ve surprised him. This is a tactical error on his part, though, because the snow shifts beneath us and his hips settle between my legs. And sweet purple ponies, is he happy to be there. Apparently near-death experiences turn him on.
But I’m not one to judge. Because at the feel of him, right up against the place I’ve wanted— needed —him to be ever since what we started in his office that night, a rush of warmth prickles over my entire body. My empty core clenches, craving more. The sensation forces a breathy moan from me—the smallest sound, but Donovan hears it.
His gaze falls to my lips. His eyes darken.
Around us, I hear the splinter of cracking ice, as if the very world is disintegrating. Which is fitting, because it’s how I feel inside—like I’m shattering. Like the heat of his mouth on mine, the possessive grip of his arms around me, is the only thing that will put me back together again. I arch into his warmth, away from the cold beneath me, and feel his heavy exhale, ruffling my hair, gusting down the sensitive skin of my throat. His eyes are fixed on mine, emotions passing across them like clouds: fury, frustration, desire, and something else I’m afraid to name. My lips part in anticipation, my tongue darting out to moisten them, and a low groan rumbles from his chest. The sound ripples through him and into me, like we’re already one.
He lowers his head, as if to kiss me. Even though there’s still a sliver of space between us, I swear I can feel the velvet brush of his lips, the hot slide of his tongue.
That sound of cracking ice reverberates again, louder this time, breaking the spell. Donovan’s eyes widen, a horrified expression sweeping his face. And then he wrenches himself away and pushes himself up. He literally leaps off the snowbank or whatever the hell we’re lying in to get away from me.
What the actual fuck.
I lie there in the not-snow, my heart pounding so hard, I can taste it. My core pulses in time with it, an ache settling deep in my belly. Without Donovan’s warmth, the cold beneath me seeps into every pore, but the idea of navigating the rest of this place with Sexual Tension Spreadsheet Guy after he just fled like I was dipped in poison feels like a nightmare.
Except you might as well be dipped in poison, I remind myself. You can’t go around kissing him, Rune. You ought to have been the one to push him away.
But…but maybe if his death is connected to the person who killed my parents, and I figure out who they are…maybe I can change the future. Maybe I can put a stop to their plan and change things so Donovan will live. So that a kiss between us doesn’t equal a curse.
Maybe, maybe, maybe. None of this changes the fact that I have to go after him, to figure out whatever challenge lies in store for us next and conquer it. Because if I don’t, I’m giving up my best shot at getting to the bottom of this mystery and avenging my parents’ deaths .
I push myself to my feet, my sneakers slipping in the fake snow, and immediately lose my balance. Instead of gracefully jumping off the snowbank, I fall on my butt and slide all the way down, skidding across the stone floor and fetching up at Donovan’s feet.
Because of course I do.
I can’t even look at him. Instead, I scramble up and examine our surroundings. Anything would be better than meeting his eyes.
We’re standing in a less pleasant version of the winter wonderland we encountered when we first walked into the escape room. The walls are solid ice, and flakes of snow drift from the ceiling, buffeted by a breeze that emanates from an unknown source. Behind us is the snowbank we landed in. And in front of us is a narrow corridor filled with ice blocks, arranged at odd angles to each other. The blocks are taller than Donovan, at least eight feet if I had to guess, and stretch for as far as I can see. I edge forward to get a better look and realize what it is: a maze, standing between us and freedom.
Frigid air hisses between my teeth as I suck in a breath. I don’t have a lot of fears, but being stuck in small spaces is one of them. The monster used to lock me in a closet for his entertainment and sit against the door, listing all of the things he wanted to do to me when he finally let me out. I designed my cottage during those awful hours, imagining every wall color, piece of furniture, and painting I’d choose when I grew up and got free of him. It’s one reason I love my little house so much, why the idea of losing this job and failing to be able to pay the mortgage devastates me to the core: it represents the fulfillment of a dream, how far I’ve come since I was a girl huddled beneath winter coats, the monster’s bowling shoes digging into my butt and the stale smell of his Newports mingling with the musty scent of long-unworn clothes.
I’ve washed myself clean of every piece of him, but try as I might, I can’t shake my hatred of enclosed spaces. Even at home, where I know I’m safe, I open all the windows rather than turn on the A/C. And now I have to find my way through an underground, narrow maze.
Oh God, what if we get stuck in there? Those cracking noises… What if something’s in there, waiting for us? What if the ice or the snow falls on us somehow and we have to dig our way out? How far beneath the surface are we, anyway?
“Well? Are you coming or not?”
Donovan’s impatient voice penetrates the haze of panic that’s descended over me. I force myself to focus on him, using the skills that the stupid court-mandated therapist gave me way back when I entered juvie: Use all your senses, Rune. What do you feel? Taste? Smell, hear, see?
Easy enough. I feel scared as shit and ice fucking cold. I’m dressed for early fall in Sapphire Springs, not winter in Narnia. I can’t taste a damn thing, because my mouth’s gone so dry with terror, my tongue’s sticking to the roof of it. Aside from Donovan’s irritated jab, I hear the small creaks of the maze’s icy walls settling, like the foundation of an old house. I smell the clean nothingness of a world made of snow and frozen water, a scent that reminds me of open spaces and freedom, not the hot, sticky confines of the closet. And in front of the entrance, I see my nemesis himself, his jeans damp from the not-snow, the sharp line of his jaw set in annoyance as he turns toward me, the sleeves of his Henley pushed up so far I see a glimpse of…is that ink? Does Mr.-Taking-Chances-Is-For-Suckers have a tattoo?
It's a tiny thing, but the sight of that black curlicue somehow peels back a layer of the dread that’s threatening to consume me. Amusement takes its place, with curiosity nipping at its heels. When, not if, we get out of here, I’m going to find out what Donovan values so much, he’d inscribe it on his body. Focus on that little discovery instead of the frozen hellscape that awaits, and maybe I’ll make it through this without having a total meltdown.
“What are you grinning at?” he says suspiciously, dark brows lowering.
“Nothing,” I lie, striding forward with a bravado I don’t feel. If there’s one thing a lifetime of covering for my premonitions has taught me, it’s how to bluff like a champ.
In front of me, the maze looms, its translucent walls shimmering in the eerie blue light that reflects from within. I draw one more breath of the frosty air, then square my shoulders.
“Come on,” I tell Donovan. “Let’s do this.”
And then I step inside.