Chapter 19 #2
I go before I can think about it, talk myself out of it, and I’m running, branches snapping underfoot, air moving quickly through my lungs, a wild and bright feeling rising up inside me. Something I haven’t felt in a long time. Maybe not ever.
He’s going to chase me.
And the crazy part, I want him to.
So I run.
Leaves skid as I exit the clearing and burst into the trees, the ground rocky enough to keep me thinking about every step. I take in quick gasps of air that barely keep up with the pace I’ve set. I’m already working harder than I expected.
At first, all I hear is myself.
My footsteps. My breathing. The rush of it.
Then, him.
Not close yet. But there. Behind me.
He’s not loud. Not frantic. No crashing through branches, no wasted movement. The steady rhythm of someone who knows exactly what he’s doing. Who isn’t worried.
A dark rush floods my mind at the idea of it. Carrson in pursuit.
I push harder. Duck under a branch, pivot around a tree, cut left without thinking, trusting instinct more than direction. The woods close in around me, shadows shifting. The path disappears into wildness, leaving nothing but ground and roots and dead leaves.
I glance back. Big mistake.
He’s closer.
Not sprinting. Not straining.
Gaining.
Effortlessly.
A burst of laughter slips out of me, disbelieving, even as a buzz races through my limbs. I turn forward again, picking up speed, my pulse slamming hard enough now that I feel it everywhere, my wrists, my throat, the space beneath my ribs.
This is insane.
I should slow down. Stop. Turn around and tell him to knock it off.
I run faster, pumping my legs harder as I weave between two trees, misjudge the space and brush one shoulder hard against bark, barely feeling it as I correct and keep going. My foot slips on loose gravel, catching right before I go down.
Behind me, he’s closer.
I don’t need to look.
I can sense it.
The narrowing distance. The inevitability of it. My mind sharpens, not with fear but anticipation. My chest heaves unevenly now, fast and gasping, my legs starting to burn, but I don’t stop. I cut right, then double back, trying to throw him off, trying to make it harder.
Trying to make it last.
A low branch forces me down, and I duck under it, pushing through.
I surge up, and a hand clamps around my wrist.
The force spins me around before I can stop. He’s right there, both of us still moving, momentum carrying us forward. His feet catch mine, and we crash to the ground, tangled together with me on my back and Carrson over me.
He lands with one hand braced near my head, the other catching his weight so he hovers instead of crushing me.
My hands are still half-curled against his chest, like I tried to stop him without realizing it.
We’re close enough that I feel him, the length of his body brushing mine.
The solid line of muscle beneath my palms. The heat of skin bleeding through fabric.
The world focuses down to this.
Carrson above me. The warmth of his body. The uneven cadence of his breathing as he steadies himself, as if even this, even me, he needs to control.
His head dips.
His gaze drags over my face, my mouth, lower for a microsecond, then back again.
The space between us shrinks.
My pulse stutters, then kicks harder, faster, like I’ve already decided what’s about to happen.
My lips part.
This is it. I know it.
He’s going to kiss me.
The moment stretches, everything slips into slow motion.
Right before his lips touch mine, he jerks back. The loss of him is so abrupt it leaves me reeling, like I’ve lost my footing somewhere deeper than the ground beneath me.
Carrson rolls off me in one smooth motion and sits with his back angled to me, putting distance between us like the last few seconds didn’t happen.
I stay where I am, staring at him, my pulse racing, my body refusing to accept that I’m not running anymore. That he’s not touching me.
I don’t know which I’m more shaken by.
That he almost kissed me or that I wanted him to.
He drags a hand over his face, shoulders set, shutting me out. One hand presses against his side, guarding it, and I remember. The fights yesterday. The chase just now. The way we fell.
He’s hurt and trying to hide it.
I push up onto my knees and inch closer, lifting my hand toward his back before stopping myself.
“Carrson…” My fingers hover, then fall to the ground. “Are you okay?”
He glances over his shoulder, then away again. “You’re too slow,” he says, his voice harsh, meant to sound like an insult.
I reach out anyway, letting my fingers brush lightly against his back. I already know what’s coming.
He flinches.
“Why do you do that?” I ask.
“What?” Even that single word comes out biting.
“Not let anyone touch you.”
“Why should I let you?” he snaps. “I barely know you.”
I let it pass. This isn’t about me.
I sit back, crossing my legs beneath me. “You’re right,” I say easily. “We don’t know each other very well.”
He gives me a long, skeptical look, like he’s waiting for more.
He’s not wrong. I know of him, newspaper articles, quiet observations from a distance, but that isn’t the same as knowing him. Not really.
The truth is, I want to.
Part of it is selfish. I want to understand how this place works, how Ashford House and Rosewood Hall produce people with that kind of influence.
But it’s not only that.
I want to understand him. Why he keeps himself out of reach. What drives him. What makes him smile, like he did earlier. And, if I’m being honest, what it would be like if he didn’t pull away.
I rest my chin in my palm, thinking. “What’s your favorite color?”
“What?” He turns toward me, brows pulling together, his expression so genuinely confused that I laugh.
“I said,” exaggerating each word, each one louder than the last, “what’s your favorite color?”
He blinks. “I don’t think I have one.”
“Of course you do.” I smile, letting him know this is supposed to be fun. “Everyone does.”
“Umm…” He glances around, attention drifting to the trees that form a canopy over our heads. A bird calls in the distance, another answering. “Green?”
“Are you saying that because we’re in a forest?”
“No.”
The slight jut of his lower lip gives him away.
“Okay,” I say, waving it off. “Next question. Favorite food?”
He considers that more seriously than it deserves. “Pizza.”
“Me too.” I lean in a little. “Toppings?”
“Pepperoni and pineapple.”
“Eww. Unforgivable.” I nudge his shoulder lightly, barely more than a brush. I hide my smile when he doesn’t react, too focused on defending himself.
“It’s good,” he insists. “The perfect combination.”
“Wrong. Pepperoni. Classic.”
We fall into it after that, arguing about soda (Coke for me, Sprite for him), chips (corn chips, we agree), candy (he’s gummy, I’m chocolate—dark only).
And if my hand brushes his knee once or twice…
That could be anything.
Or nothing.
And maybe he doesn’t pull away this time.
Eventually the light fades, swallowed by shadow, the birds quieting one by one as the woods slip into a listening hush. I glance up as the first stars emerge, faint and distant, suns that died long ago.
“It’s getting late,” I say, rising to my feet. Carrson stands too. “I told Lou I’d have dinner with the rest of the sorority.” I brush leaves from my clothes. “She put me in the room right next to hers.” I widen my eyes. “I can’t tell if that’s to protect me or because she doesn’t trust me.”
“Probably both,” he says, and I nod in agreement.
I tug my sleeve down, twisted from the chase, then stop. “Oh no.”
He’s beside me instantly, scanning for injuries. “What?”
I hold up the fabric. “It’s ripped. Must’ve happened when we fell.” I cover my eyes with a dramatic groan. “Lou’s going to hate me. I was trying to make a good impression.”
Carrson gives a low laugh. “Don’t worry. I’ll tell her it’s my fault. I’ll buy her a new one…” He pauses, then rushes on. “And one for you too. I meant it earlier. I like it.”
A long pause.
“How you look.”
There it is again. That lightness rushing through my veins, spreading quick and bubbling, catching before I can contain it.
I begin to smile, but the gesture only makes it halfway before it fails.
The shift is subtle but unmistakable. Whatever softened him before is gone. His mouth sets, his expression closes off, his posture goes rigid.
I resist the instinct to step back.
“Listen.” His voice drops low, full of warning. “You saw how fast I caught you. Jackson’s just as quick.” He comes closer. Not enough to touch, but enough that I feel it anyway. “From now on, you don’t come out here alone.”
My chest seizes.
“If you do,” he says, quieter now, dipping his head so I have no choice but to meet his gaze, “Jackson won’t be the one you have to worry about.”
“You’ll be dealing with me.”
The words hang between us.
“And you don’t want that.”
The warmth in my chest vanishes, leaving only cold behind.