Chapter 14 Mia
MIA
The music changes into something slower, more intimate, and Vanguard pulls me closer still. I can feel every inch of him against me—chest, thighs, the unmistakable hardness pressing against my hip. My heart is hammering so loud, I know he can hear it with those enhanced senses of his.
“What do you want from me?” The words slip out before I can stop them.
He doesn’t hesitate. “You.” His voice is low, rough, meant only for me. “I want you, darlin’. With every fiber of my being.”
Something rattles in my chest, something I’ve kept locked away for fifteen years, maybe my whole life.
His head dips toward mine, those blue eyes darkening, and I realize with sudden, crystalline terror that he’s going to kiss me. Right here. In front of everyone. In front of the photographers and politicians and monsters.
And then, he’s going to drop dead.
I look down sharply, breaking the moment, my forehead nearly hitting his chin. My breath comes in short, ragged bursts.
“I know you want that too,” he murmurs against my hair. “I can read it on you.”
Of course he can. Enhanced senses. He can probably smell my arousal, hear the way my pulse spikes every time he touches me. He knows exactly what he’s doing to me, and he has no idea that what I want could destroy him.
“This isn’t a good idea.” I pull back, putting inches between us that feel like miles. “I need a drink.”
I slip from his arms and cut across the dance floor, weaving between couples until I reach a waiter with a tray of champagne. I grab a glass and down half of it in one swallow then position myself near a marble column, far enough from Vanguard that his enhanced hearing shouldn’t pick up a whisper.
I twist my earring to full receive.
“Bayo,” I breathe, barely moving my lips. Even if Vanguard can hear me, he won’t really know what I’m saying.
“Don’t go anywhere alone with him.” Bayo’s voice is tight, urgent. “Mia, whatever you’re feeling—”
I see Vanguard approaching through the crowd, that predatory focus in his eyes, and I twist the earring back before Bayo can finish, wishing my heart would stop thundering against my chest like a herd of wild horses.
Vanguard reaches me, and, without a word, he takes my champagne glass and sets it on a passing tray then captures my hand in his.
“Come with me.” His thumb traces circles on my palm, sending shivers up my arm. “I think we both need some fresh air.”
Don’t go anywhere alone with him.
“Vanguard—”
“Nate,” he corrects, and the sound of his real name makes my chest ache. “Tonight, I’m just Nate.”
He’s already pulling me toward the edge of the room, toward a set of French doors that lead onto a stone balcony. I should resist, should make an excuse, claim I need the loo, disappear into the crowd. Every bit of my training screams at me to break contact and run.
But I don’t. Because beneath all my layers, all the real and all the fake, I’m just a desperate, hungry, terribly lonely girl who’s been forever denied what it means to be human.
Outside, the chill is bracing, yet not enough to slap some sense into me. The balcony overlooks a private courtyard, empty except for manicured hedges and a fountain that’s been turned off for the season. Beyond it, Manhattan glitters as always.
Vanguard—Nate—leads me to the railing then turns to face me. The wind ruffles his dark hair, and in the moonlight, he looks less like a superhero or a movie star and more like a man. Just a man. One who’s looking at me like I’m the answer to a question he’s been asking his whole life.
“Try not to scream,” he says.
“What—”
His arms wrap around me, one at my waist, one at my shoulders, and suddenly, the ground isn’t there anymore.
My stomach drops. The balcony falls away beneath us—ten feet, twenty, fifty—and I’m clutching him like my life depends on it, because oh my fucking God, it does.
The city shrinks below us, the Met becoming a dollhouse, Central Park a dark rectangle studded with lamplights, and we’re rising, rising, the wind whipping my hair free from its careful knot and tearing pins away into the void.
I do scream. Just a little.
“I’ve got you,” he says against my ear, and his arms tighten, pulling me flush against him. “I’ve always got you.”
We’re flying. Flying. Not in a hover car, not in a plane, but actually bloody flying, with nothing beneath my feet but a thousand feet of empty air and nothing keeping me alive except the man holding me against his chest.
It’s terrifying. It’s exhilarating. It’s the most incredible thing I’ve ever experienced.
The city spreads out below us like a reverse night sky, avenues stretching in constellations, buildings dotted like stars, the Hudson and East Rivers dark galaxies hemming it all in.
I can see the Statue of Liberty in the distance, tiny and green, her torch a pinprick of gold.
The wind is cold and sharp and smells like nothing at all, just clean air and the utter freedom of the skies.
And I’m crying. I don’t know when I started, but tears are streaming down my cheeks, stolen by the wind before they can fall, which is a blessing.
My tears might be lethal to the one carrying me thousands of feet in the air.
It’s just too much—the height, the speed, the feel of his body against mine, the impossible reality of what’s happening.
I’ve spent so long keeping everyone at arm’s length, ever since my first kiss ended in death, and now, I’m a thousand feet above Manhattan, in the arms of a man I’m supposed to be investigating, the man who has so much power, he could destroy anything he wanted.
I’ve never felt more alive.
Or more terrified.
“Breathe,” Nate says, and I realize I’ve been holding my breath. “Look at me. Just look at me.”
I tear my gaze from the dizzying drop and find his eyes—steady, calm, anchoring me in the chaos. He’s not scared at all. Of course he isn’t. This is what he was literally made for.
“I’m going to land,” he says. “Okay?”
I nod because I don’t trust my voice.
We descend slowly, the city rising to meet us, and I watch as a rooftop materializes beneath my dangling feet, some kind of observation deck, empty and silent, with a glass barrier around the edges and a view that must cost a fortune.
My heels touch concrete, and my legs buckle immediately.
Nate catches me before I can fall, his hands warm on my waist. “Easy. Take a second.”
“A second?” I squeak. “Right. Just need a second after being kidnapped into the sky without warning—”
“You loved it.”
“I did not—” I break off because he’s grinning at me, that genuine smile that transforms his whole face, and I realize I’m grinning too. Laughing, actually—breathless, hysterical laughter that sounds unhinged even to my own ears.
“Okay,” I admit. “Maybe a little.”
His hands linger on my waist, fingers pressing in firmly, and the laughter dies in my throat. The way he’s looking at me…something has changed. The polished superhero from the gala is gone, and in his place is something rawer.
Hungrier.
Messier.
And therefore, more dangerous.
I step back, breaking contact, and I immediately regret it as the vertigo hits.
The rooftop tilts beneath my feet, and I have to grab the glass barrier to steady myself.
We’re so high, so impossibly, terrifyingly high.
The cars on the streets below look like toys, the people like ants, and my stomach lurches as my brain tries to reconcile what my eyes are seeing.
“Breathe,” Nate says from behind me. Close. Too close.
I move along the barrier, putting distance between us, focusing on the view instead of the man.
The Empire State Building rises to my left, its spire lit up in red and gold.
Beyond it, the city sprawls in every direction—Midtown’s forest of glass towers, the dark rectangle of Central Park, the water a glittering border.
It’s both beautiful and overwhelming, the kind of view that makes you feel small and infinite at the same time.
I try and focus on that feeling, focus on anything but him.
But I hear his footsteps behind me. For the first time, they remind me of a lethal predator stalking its prey, without knowing the prey is poisonous.
I keep walking, trailing my fingers along the glass barrier, and he keeps pace. Not crowding me, but not giving me space either. A constant presence at my back, radiating heat and intent, the kind of intent that makes me panic.
“The Chrysler Building,” I say rather stupidly, pointing at the art deco spire because I need to say something, anything, to fill the charged silence. “I’ve always wanted to see it up close.”
“I’ll take you sometime.”
His voice is low, intimate, like a promise of things to come. I can’t help but shiver, though I pass it off as the wind. It’s cold as hell up here, even though my body feels like it’s on fire.
I round the corner of the observation deck. He follows. I can feel his eyes on me, snaking over my body as if I’m naked, leaving trails of fire in their wake. I’m suddenly, acutely aware I’m not even wearing underwear. I am so exposed up here, alone with him, a thousand feet above the world.
Bayo must be losing his bloody mind.
I stop at the north-facing edge, gripping the railing, and finally turn to face him.
He’s closer than I expected, close enough that I can see the way his pupils have blown wide, swallowing the blue.
Close enough to see the tension in his jaw, the way his chest rises and falls with carefully controlled breaths.
He looks like a man on the edge of something, like he’s holding himself back by the thinnest of threads.
I hate that part of me wants that thread to snap, even though I know what it would mean for both of us.
“You’re following me,” I say.
“You’re running away.”
“I’m not running. I’m admiring the view.”
“So am I.”