Keira
I should look away, but where the hell else can I look?
This place is the size of a shoebox.
Instead, I return his stare while I sit on the only bed and Saint stands there drinking from a bottle.
The scotch has warmed my belly after the long ride, but the burn of it sliding down my throat can’t kill the ache in my core.
The persistent lit fuse inside me that I’ve cursed since the second he showed up in the yard.
“Ever heard of personal space?” I force my shoulders back and lift my chin higher. “Back up, Saint.”
He lowers the bottle, his gaze never leaving mine, and turns just enough that his hip comes to rest against the narrow counter behind him.
Not exactly backing off.
“I’m not going anywhere,” I add, “so you don’t need to hover.”
The wind rattles against the aerial outside while he wipes his thumb across his bottom lip, blotting excess Scotch, before he lifts the bottle to his lips again.
“You’re not boxed in because I’m standing here.” His throat works as he drinks and swallows. “You’re boxed in because there’s nowhere else to go.”
He holds my gaze for a second, as if he’s waiting for an argument. There’s no point. I’m tired, cold, and I don’t trust what’ll come out of my mouth if I speak.
The bottle hits the counter with a dull clank, and he turns his back. It doesn’t matter how far he moves, he’s still close enough that my attention clings to every move he makes.
My shoulders pull tighter as he drags open a stiff drawer that sticks before it gives.
He lowers to his haunches, and his hand disappears beneath the counter where the heating unit is tucked away.
There’s a scrape of metal. A stiff turn followed by a click, then another.
Eventually, a whoosh of fire comes out as the gas catches, flames blooming behind thin metal bars.
Heat seeps into the room, killing the chilly air that’s settled deep into my bones.
It blazes against my legs when he stands and moves aside. If he weren’t such an asshole, I’d thank him for the warmth and tell him it’s cozy in here now.
But I hate the man right now, and I’ll never thank him for a single thing.
He reaches for the bottle again and takes another drink.
I shrug out of the wet jacket I’m wearing, stand and hang it on a hook over the small window in the door.
“If you’re staying the night, you’ll sleep on the floor.”
A slow smile creeps across his face. My pulse goes wild.
“Next you’ll expect me to kneel for ya, Keira,” he says. “And that sure as fuck isn’t happening either.”
“You don’t seriously think I’ll share a bed with you?”
His gaze drags over me, slow enough to burn. “You weren’t saying that when I was coming inside ya.”
My body remembers before my brain can stop it. Heat spreads under my skin, and I do my best not to let it affect me.
“Just because it happened a few times doesn’t mean I want it to happen again,” I say, stepping into his space instead of keeping a safe distance. “You think I’ll just…fall into line for you.”
He takes a drink of Scotch and keeps eye contact with me.
After he swallows, he hands me the bottle. “I expect ya to behave. That’s all.”
I snatch the bottle and take a long drink, trying hard to drown the fire in my veins.
“Well, I expect you to behave, too.” I shove the liquor into his chest. “Keep your hands to yourself.”
Our gazes clash.
“Lay a hand on me and you’ll see what I can do with a broken bottle.”
I kick off my boots and climb onto the bed, turning my back to him as I lie on top of the floral duvet.
Behind me, he swallows a few more mouthfuls of Scotch. The floorboards creak beneath his steps before the door opens and cold, damp air sweeps through the cabin. A moment later, the bottle shatters somewhere in the darkness.
When he seals out the night air again, he bends to unlace his boots, then straightens and unbuckles his belt.
In a heartbeat, he’s crawling onto the thin mattress next to me in only black boxers.
The bed is narrow enough that I can feel the heat of him without touching. I stare at the ceiling and listen to him breathe, thinking about how much I hate him, and how that’s stopped being entirely true, and how both can apparently happen at the same damn time.
He doesn’t move.
Neither do I.
The wind keeps rattling the metal-framed windows, and I lie there, wondering if Riley has given my father Saint’s message and what he’ll do about it.
At some point, the temperature dips, and the gas fire ticks as if it’s cooling. I refuse to get under the duvet, so I keep my back to him, drag the pillow lower and hug it close to my chest.
“Get under the blanket,” he says in a low rumble, breaking the silence.
“I’m fine.”
The frame beneath the mattress creaks under his weight as he moves and yanks the duvet out from under me, and then the fabric settles over my body.
I hold my breath rather than thank him.
Once he’s settled next to me, too close for comfort, I squeeze my eyes shut and remind myself of all the shitty things he’s done, making sure I focus on those details instead of how much I fancy him.
Even now. Even though I’m fuming that he shot Riley in the leg and told him he’d do whatever he wanted with me until my father signs.
Fuck him.
The bed isn’t wide enough for two people to stay apart all night, not with the way the mattress dips and pulls when he rolls to his side and then lies flat on his back.
Body heat gathers in pockets and leaves when the duvet lifts with his movement.
Drifting half-asleep, my foot brushes against something warm and solid.
I register the sensation the second it happens.
My eyes don’t open, but everything inside me flares hot and aware.
The contact is small enough to ignore if I wanted to. I should snap my foot back to my side of the bed and pretend I’m sleeping.
Rather, I wait for him to move his leg away first.
He doesn’t, though, and that’s the problem.
I could’ve blamed the narrow bed, the angle, the cramped space, but that doesn’t hold now I’ve stayed still. I could turn onto my back, take the risk of brushing his arm, or worse.
As for Saint, he stays exactly where he is, and I can’t help thinking he’s aware of it too.
The warmth of that single point of contact spreads out of proportion, claiming my attention and shaking up my senses.
Seconds stretch.
Or minutes.
I can’t tell.
All I know is that he hasn’t moved his leg and I’m still frozen, pretending I haven’t noticed, or that I don’t care.
Truth is, I feel the connection everywhere. And it’s knocking me off balance.
After a while, I decide it’s best to slide my foot away, breaking contact until there’s nothing left but the absence of it.
I lie there in the space I’ve made, staring at the shadows, my heart beating too fast for someone who should be asleep, my body too aware of where he is, of where we aren’t touching anymore.
And that absence is haunting me.
I tell myself the moment is over, that it’s passed, but the ache in my core doesn’t follow logic and sits there suspended, waiting to see if he’ll make a move.
The problem isn’t that I want him to close the distance. It’s that I’d let him.
I return my pillow to under my head and lie flat, daring a quick glance over to find the whites of his eyes directed at the ceiling.
I’m pissed at myself for wanting him. And for letting him in too many times already that I’m struggling to keep him out now.
I hate the way this choice feels like punishment, and rather than it being his, it’s become mine.
We lie next to each other in silence, generating body heat but not sleep. At some point, he sits up, throws the duvet off and moves to the end of the bed, jangling his belt buckle as he pulls on his jeans.
The mattress lifts as he stands, and I watch him pull his shirt over his head and take in how the muscles tense beneath the skin on his back. Now I can’t unsee it.
He stuffs his feet into his boots and runs a hand through his messy, thick black hair.
A day’s worth of new stubble shadows his jaw, and his presence takes up every corner.
Before he heads out into the dark, he shrugs into his coat, digs out a packet of smokes and a lighter from the pocket, then shoves the door open.
Cold air rushes in for a second, skimming over my face and settling into the empty space beside me.
“Are you heading back to the yard?” I ask, propping myself up on my elbows.
“It’s too dark,” he says. “Anyway, I’m not leaving without ya. You go where I go. Remember?”
He glances over at me.
“Once Crowley’s men have searched the yard, we’ll head back. Your da still hasn’t signed. It’s time to turn the screw.”
“What about your mother?”
“I’m not scared of my ma, princess.”
When he steps out and shuts the door behind him, I let my head fall back to the pillow and listen to the lighter flint spark.
He’s put space between himself and me on purpose.
Deep down, I’m foolishly disappointed and impatiently waiting for the door to open again.