Chapter Nine #2
“You make me feel things—” His voice is low, almost pained. “—when I never used to feel. You make me think of things a man like me has no business thinking. And you—” He exhales, sharp and frustrated. “You disturb me.”
That should sound like an insult.
But the way he says it—like it’s been torn out of him, like he’s confessing a sin—makes warmth bloom in my chest instead.
Mira the Disturber.
I kind of love it.
“I overheard you talking about Luc.” His jaw tightens on the name, and I hold my breath. “When I didn’t know he was fictional—”
“And it disturbed you?”
“Yes.”
Oh wow.
“And when I saw someone pick you up at your cousin’s wake—”
My eyes widen. “I thought you left!”
“It would have been better if I had.” His voice is rough. “I would have been spared watching you run into another man’s arms. Watching you cry on his chest.”
“And that...also disturbed you?”
“Extremely.”
I should not be this happy about disturbing him.
And yet...
“Dane is just my friend,” I blurt out. “We’ve never—he’s not—I don’t think of him like that at all.”
“It didn’t look that way.”
“He’s Trina’s ex. They dated in high school, but they kept it secret because his parents thought she was bad news.”
He goes very still.
“I swear,” I add quickly. “We’re just friends. He’s still in love with her, I think. He probably always will be.”
For a long moment, he just looks at me. Then he exhales—a long, slow breath, like he’s releasing something that’s been coiled tight inside him for days.
And I don’t know what comes over me—
“Can I tell you something?”
But suddenly I’m talking again, words spilling out before I can stop them.
“I thought about you too.” My face is burning, but I can’t seem to stop. “Even when I felt like I shouldn’t. Even when I thought you only saw me as a burden—”
“Mira—”
“I kept thinking about your hands.” The confession tumbles out in a rush. “When you changed my bandages. The way your fingers felt against my skin. I couldn’t look at you because I knew—I knew you’d see—”
I clamp my mouth shut, mortified.
But it’s too late.
His eyes have gone dark. Hungry. The ice in them melted into something that makes my skin feel too tight for my body.
“What would I have seen?”
His voice is a low rasp that does things to my insides.
“I...”
My phone is buzzing again. Somewhere in the distance, I can hear students laughing, a frisbee game happening on the quad, the normal sounds of campus life continuing on without us.
But all I can see is him.
“Tell me,” he murmurs. A command wrapped in silk.
“You.” The word comes out choked. “You would have seen how much I wanted y—”
He doesn’t let me finish, with his mouth crashing into mine, and this time there’s no hesitation, no gentleness. His hands are in my hair, and he’s kissing me like I’m oxygen, and he’s been drowning for years, and all I can do is grab fistfuls of his jacket and hold on.
And kiss him back, of course.
I kiss him like I’ve been wanting to since the moment he pulled off his mask in that car. I kiss him like I’m pouring every sleepless night and every forbidden daydream into the space between our mouths.
When we finally break apart, we’re both breathing hard.
“This isn’t the place,” he says roughly.
I nod, still dazed. We’re in public. On campus. Anyone could see—
“Come with me.”
He takes my hand, and my heart skips a beat as his fingers thread through mine like it’s the most natural thing in the world, his grip firm and possessive as he leads me away from the archway, down a path I vaguely recognize, toward the quiet garden behind the old chapel.
It’s deserted at this hour, the late afternoon light filtering through the trees and turning everything soft and golden. A stone bench sits beneath an oak tree, half-hidden by hedges.
Private.
Secluded.
And I barely have time to register any of it before he’s backing me up against the oak tree and his mouth is on my neck.
“I told myself I was protecting you.” His lips trace a path to my collarbone, and I shiver. “Keeping my distance.” A kiss to the hollow of my throat. “Finding you someone better.”
“There is no one better.”
The words slip out before I can stop them, and he freezes against me.
“There isn’t,” I whisper. “There’s no one else I want. Just—”
He doesn’t let me finish.
His hands slide under my cardigan, palms cool against my overheated skin, and I gasp at the contrast. He’s touching me like I’m something precious. Something breakable. His fingers trace the curve of my waist, the dip of my spine, leaving trails of fire everywhere they go.
“Mira.” My name sounds like a prayer on his lips.
I can’t think. Can’t breathe. Can only feel—his hands, his mouth, the solid warmth of his body pressing me back against the rough bark of the tree.
He takes his time.
Learns me with his hands and his lips and his devastating patience. Finds the places that make me gasp, then returns to them again and again until I’m trembling, until I’m clutching his shoulders just to stay upright, until sounds I didn’t know I could make are spilling from my throat.
When I finally shatter, it’s with his name on my lips and his eyes on my face, watching every moment of my unraveling like he wants to memorize it.
When I come back to myself, I’m boneless, breathless, an absolute mess in the sweetest way, and the ball of fear that’s been stuck inside of me ever since the auction is gone. I lift my gaze to his and swallow hard when I see the look in his eyes.
Mira the Disturber, indeed.
“Zacharie.”
His voice is uneven.
“But you may also call me yours if you wish.”
I choke on air.
How?
How does he know I almost called him that the first night I spent in his home?
How?
“It’s your face, ma belle. It gives everything away.”
If that’s the case then—
I can feel him smile as I bury my face in his chest.
I mean...what else is there to do?
I have no idea what my face is saying right now, but I’m sure it’s something he doesn’t need to know.
“You do not need to hide anything from me, Mira.”
“I beg to differ.”
“I beg to differ back.”
He steps away before I can stop him, and he’s cupping my chin, and...sigh. The moment his gaze captures mine, I’m done for.
“We must never have secrets from each other. C’est clair?”
He’s already taking my hand as he speaks, and all I can do is nod. Le sigh. Those blue eyes of his are a killer.
Zacharie insists on walking me back to my dorm, and I can’t help stealing glances at him every so often, wondering if this is really happening. Life has been so crazy lately—huh?
I finally notice the way other students have been staring and whispering, and I’m not sure what I should do or how I should feel about it.
Two girls on a nearby bench have their phones out, not even trying to be subtle about taking photos. A group of guys by the fountain are elbowing each other and pointing.
“Is that—”
“Oh my gosh, I think it’s—”
“—one of those low-key billionaires, you know the ones who—”
“He’s so hot, what the—”
“Who’s the girl with him?”
My face flames.
Right.
I forgot.
In Southern California, he’s famous. One of the homegrown billionaires, the society pages call him. Self-made. Mysterious. The kind of man whose face ends up on magazine covers with headlines like “The Eligible Bachelors of Los Angeles” or “California’s Most Secretive Billionaires.”
And he’s holding my hand.
In public.
Where people can see.
A jogger on the phone nearly barrels into me, but Zacharie’s quick reflexes have him moving to his other side, and all while making sure he doesn’t injure my side.
“Um,” I manage. “People are staring.”
“C’est le cas.” So they are.
“And they’re taking pictures.”
“En effet.” Indeed.
“Doesn’t that...bother you?”
“Seulement si cela vous dérange.” Only if it bothers you.
Well...
If there’s one thing that bothers me right now, then that would be him.
Or rather him speaking in French.
Because I think he’s figured out that hearing him speak in his native language does strange things to my heart, and if he keeps this up—
The sound of my phone ringing is exactly what I need.
A distraction to get my heart to calm down and stop racing like it’s training for a marathon, and oh!
The fact that it’s Dane calling again is even better.
Zacharie’s gaze narrows when he sees Dane’s name on the screen. “I still don’t want you to answer—”
I pretend not to hear him say that as I answer the call.
But the voice on the other end isn’t Dane.
And the next words I hear have the phone slipping out of my grasp.
I watch it fall in slow motion, tumbling end over end, but Zacharie’s hand darts out and catches it before it hits the ground.
“What’s wrong?” His voice is sharp. Alert. All traces of warmth replaced by something hard and focused. “Mira. What happened?”
“D-Dane...”
“What is it?”
“That was the hospital,” I hear myself say. “Dane was shot.”