Chapter 24 #2
Alaric leans against the wall beside me, mirroring my position, close enough that the sleeve of his jacket brushes against my bare arm.
“You’re not,” he murmurs. “Nor would I expect you to be, given what I just witnessed. Did Mia Young actually slap Luca?”
I close my eyes, shame trickling through my limbs like a drizzle of rain in early spring.
If Alaric saw that, other people did, too.
Shit. Forget my shame. There’s a very real chance my best friend could be in trouble because of me.
The sensation of his pinky brushing my hand startles me. His skin is warm. Soft. I blink my eyes open, but I don’t dare look down at the source.
“I’m sorry for whatever he said or did,” Alaric says as he brushes the tips of his fingers over my wrist. “Unfortunately, I know my son well enough to assume he deserved whatever happened in there.”
It’s a small mercy, I suppose, that he correctly assumes his son is an ass. It makes the whole lusting after my ex-boyfriend’s dad situation a little less problematic. He’s clearly the better of the two Steele men. It’s a shame I didn’t meet him first.
“Evangeline…”
Keeping my focus fixed on the floor, I shake my head.
I don’t want to talk. I don’t deserve his compassion or care. This man has the power to break me, and for the sake of both our careers, I can’t sink any deeper into whatever this is between us.
Any deeper, and I don’t think I could pull myself out.
My stomach swooshes as the elevator ascends. I have no idea how I scored a room near the top of this hotel, but I’m certainly not complaining about the accommodations.
Inhaling slowly, I look at the display above the buttons, giving myself something to focus on. I gnaw on my bottom lip as the numbers rise. Though despite my discipline, my attention drifts, and when it lands on the mirrored elevator doors and I take in our reflection, my breath catches.
Alaric, hair slicked back and in his all-black ensemble, and me in my bold, formfitting red dress.
There’s no denying it: We look good together.
In another life… In another place…
My heart aches with an intensity that tempts me to rub at my sternum. I quell the urge quickly, committing myself to not dwelling on the truth that this man can never be mine.
But then his fingers glide lower and skirt over my knuckles. He pauses, the warmth of his touch soaking into me as he gives me a chance to pull away.
When I don’t, he forges on.
With the gentlest touch, he urges my fist to unfurl. Then he slips his hand into mine.
My lungs seize in my chest.
Despite how distorted we look, he meets my gaze in our reflection. “Please, Evangeline. Talk to me.”
Coming to my senses, I pull my hand back. “I can’t talk to you,” I tell him. “I can’t even look at you.”
He flinches like I’ve struck him.
I could never.
Hell, I couldn’t even find it in me to slap his son.
“What do you mean?” he demands, turning and looming over me, obsidian eyes boring into mine while the heady scent of his cologne infiltrates my senses.
The elevator dings, snapping me out of my head again. I turn, grateful for the opportunity to escape.
Except Alaric moves faster, reaching around me and hitting the close-door button again, then selecting the lobby as our next destination.
We’re descending before I can process his actions.
“Are you serious?” I whip my head around to glare at the man I can’t allow myself to give in to.
“Completely,” he says, his pupils blown out.
Huffing, I rescan my room key and select my floor again.
“We’re not doing this,” I tell him, positioning myself in front of the panel of buttons so he can’t reroute us again.
He closes the space between us in two strides, undeterred, crowding me until my bare back is pressed flat on the cold metal.
I must hit something, because the elevator dings and the doors start to open once more.
Wide-eyed, Alaric jolts back, retreating to the opposite corner of the tight space. He shoves his hands into the pockets of his slacks, all his attention focused on his feet.
Frustration rolls through me. This is why we can’t even entertain the idea of exploring our attraction. The way he just reacted? The adrenaline sizzling through my veins at the prospect of being caught?
The idea of sneaking around isn’t sexy or fun. Not to me. There’s too much on the line. Between his reputation and career, and my mental health and self-confidence, we can never be more than work colleagues and casual acquittances.
Except it’s too late. We’re already more. Whatever’s happening between us has already pushed past the boundaries I pathetically keep trying to maintain.
When no one immediately enters the elevator, he lifts his head, his eyes flitting to me and the panel of buttons before a lightbulb goes off and he realizes why we stopped.
His jaw ticks as he glares into the empty hall.
The doors close in slow motion.
We’re alone once again.
He stalks toward me with an aggressive, tenacious hunger blazing behind his eyes.
My every cell liquefies into molten lust.
My belly warms, the tingle between my thighs threatening to ruin my underwear. Simply being in this man’s proximity has me coiling into a mess of desire.
I shouldn’t want this. I shouldn’t crave his touch or delight in his attention. His expression is pure need. He’s looking at me like he wants to devour me whole.
Swallowing past the lump in my throat, I turn away.
He crowds me once more, wraps a strong arm around my waist, and pulls me away from the wall.
His large palm rests against my bare back, thanks to the low cutout of my dress, his warmth urging me to slink closer. And I do.
To be wanted, to be seen and desired by a man like him, causes a thrill to rush through me.
Leaning forward, he peers over my shoulder and jabs at a button on the panel.
The elevator comes to an abrupt halt.
In a tantalizingly slow retreat, he stands to full height and grips my chin. Tilting my head back, he forces me to make eye contact.
“We’re not doing what, exactly, Evangeline?”
My breath catches. I’m fixated, hypnotized by the man I can’t have but can’t resist wanting.
He stopped the elevator. He created a temporary sanctuary. A place where no one can reach us and nothing can come between us. I get lost in his eyes, reveling in being the center of his attention in this one perfect, stolen moment.
In a matter of weeks, he’s changed my perspective sharply. He’s proven that there are good men out there still. That I’m not destined to be alone forever. That while I might be a lot, I won’t be too much for the right person.
That person just can’t be him.
With that thought, I blink, allowing all the reasonable, practical, responsible thoughts to flood my mind.
“We can’t do whatever this is, where we both get caught up in the moment,” I whisper, heart sinking.
“Where we lean into how good this feels and ignore the reality of our situation. I can’t be someone you cast aside.
” That last sentence is louder. Stronger.
“I won’t be someone you grow to resent or regret. ”
I’ve been that girl before. Hell, I’m always that girl, it seems. I’m no stranger to rejection. But if this man rejected me, I don’t know how I’d go on.
He’s shown me so much kindness. He’s opened my eyes to what it can feel like to be seen, to be with a person who is willing to meet my needs. No, not willing. Eager.
Forget his job, his age, and his demon offspring.
My real hangup, it occurs to me now, is that Alaric is everything I’ve ever wanted in a partner, and I’m far more scared of surviving the loss of him than I am of never having him at all.
His eyes flit between mine, reading every emotion on my face, his etched with longing, his breath sawing in a rhythm that matches the rise and fall of my own chest.
I want him.
I’ve never wanted anyone like this.
But the promise of pleasure is no match for my fear of inevitable agony.
“Tell me not to kiss you,” he demands, like he didn’t hear a word of the logical, reasonable argument I just made.
We’re not doing what, exactly?
Tell me not to kiss you.
My mouth falls open, the protest on the tip of my tongue.
But the words won’t come. I can’t fight our mutual attraction on my own. If he wants to be reckless for one moment, then fuck it.
I’ve had a shit night anyway.
When I don’t object, he licks his lips and hovers closer. “Last chance, Evangeline.”
In response, I cock a defiant brow.
He glides his hand up my spine until he’s cupping the back of my head, putting me where he wants me. “For the record,” he says, his voice a ragged whisper, “I could never regret you.”
I don’t know who moves first. Maybe I lunge forward, or maybe he bows down. Either way, despite the words and the warnings and logic, we come together in a hungry, greedy, demanding kiss.