Chapter 4 Tag #2
“Isn’t it?” She paused at the doorway, but didn’t turn around. “You’ve been calling me ‘kid’ since my brother died. Treating me like I might break, making decisions about what’s best for me without ever asking what I want. I thought maybe…but no. You’re right. This won’t happen again.”
She left, and I stood alone, certain that I’d done the right thing even as everything in me screamed that I was a fool. I remained motionless even as the memory of her kiss threatened to bring me to my knees.
I spent the next few hours pacing the downstairs library like a caged animal, trying to focus on the mission, Janus, AIWS—anything but the look on Leila’s face when she’d stalked away.
She was right, of course. It had been exactly that long since I first yearned to know how her lips would feel beneath mine.
I’d spent all that time treating her like she was a nineteen-year-old who’d entered the Unit 23 training facility with her brother’s death fresh in her eyes.
But what she didn’t understand then or now was that staying away from her had nothing to do with age or innocence.
It was about me being too damaged, too terrified of what we could become if I let myself care for her the way I wanted to.
The deluge continued its assault on the castle, with wind howling through gaps in the timeworn stones. Somewhere in the walls, pipes groaned and settled. The radiators clanged intermittently, and the whole place seemed alive, observing my misery with the judgment of centuries.
The sound of movement in the kitchen finally drew me from my self-imposed isolation. The sun had set, though the dark clouds made the distinction largely academic. The castle’s electricity flickered intermittently, casting everything in unreliable light.
I found Leila at the AGA, stirring a pot. She’d tied her hair in a messy bun, and when she turned to face me, I had to force myself not to stare at the spot where my lips had been only hours ago.
“Are you hungry? Mrs. MacLeod’s soup smells incredible.”
The shift to civility was so smooth it gave me whiplash. She acted as if the last few hours—hell, the last day—hadn’t happened at all. As if we hadn’t kissed. As if I hadn’t broken something between us that might never heal.
“Leila, about earlier—”
“Don’t.” She didn’t look up from ladling soup into bowls. “There’s nothing more to say.”
She set the bowls on the table with the fresh bread Mrs. MacLeod had provided, then sat down.
I took the chair across from her, noticing the bruise on her cheek had turned purple-black against her bronze skin.
I had to fight the urge to reach across the table and touch it, to apologize for not catching her sooner, for not protecting her from the fall.
And most of all, for not protecting her from me.
We ate in silence after that. Though the soup was rich and warming, I barely tasted it.
Every movement Leila made, every breath, reminded me of what I couldn’t have.
What I wouldn’t allow myself to have. The way she tucked a strand of hair that had escaped her bun behind her ear, the way her throat moved when she swallowed, and the faint mark on her neck where my stubble had scraped against her skin during our kiss.
Christ. I couldn’t do this. I pushed my chair from the table and stood. After cleaning the bowl and spoon, I left the kitchen and headed upstairs. Before I reached the doorway of the bedroom across the hall from hers, I saw her approaching.
“Don’t do this. It’s ridiculous for you to sleep elsewhere.” Fatigue deepened her voice. “We can share a bed without…”
Without what? Without touching? Without wanting? Without remembering how exquisitely we’d fit together when we kissed?
“Okay,” I said, following her into the bedroom that seemed smaller than it had this morning.
The walls appeared closer, and the air felt heavier.
We took turns in the bathroom, changing into sleep clothes with the door firmly closed between us.
I pulled track pants and a sweatshirt on, trying not to think about her doing the same.
When I emerged, she was already under the covers on the far side of the bed, turned away from the center.
I got in on my side, staying as close to the edge as physics would allow.
The space between us might as well have been an ocean.
Or maybe a minefield—it was dangerous to cross, potentially explosive.
The mattress was old enough that it dipped slightly in the middle, trying to pull us together, but we both clung to our edges with grim determination.
I stared at the ceiling, hyperaware of her presence. Her breathing was uneven. She was awake, as I was, and both of us were lying there, pretending not to be.
The memory of the kiss haunted me. I couldn’t forget the way she’d responded, like she’d been waiting for it as long as I had. Or the heat of her mouth, the softness of her full lips, and the way she’d fit against me like our bodies were made to be close.
Last night, we’d gravitated toward one another. Now, we fought that pull, clinging to our separate territories like our lives depended on it. Because maybe they did. Or at least, mine did.
The clock on the mantel chimed midnight.
Then one. Then two. Then three. Still, I couldn’t sleep.
Every time she shifted, perhaps trying to find a comfortable position, it sent desire pulsing through me.
If only she’d face me. Then I wouldn’t—couldn’t—resist her.
But she didn’t. And it was the longest night of my life.