Chapter 2 #2
She tugged again. The box slid free suddenly.
It was too heavy.
The momentum carried her backward. Her heel hit the ice. Her legs went out from under her.
It happened in slow motion. I saw her eyes go wide. I saw the box tipping, threatening to crush her. I saw the back of her head rushing toward the asphalt.
I didn't think. I moved.
I crossed the twenty feet between us in a blur of motion that no human eye could track. I was simply there.
My hand shot out, catching the back of her coat, arresting her fall inches from the ground. With my other hand, I caught the heavy tote as if it were made of styrofoam, swinging it away from her body.
I hauled her up.
She gasped, her hands flying out to steady herself. She grabbed the first solid thing she found.
My chest.
Her small hands, encased in white mittens, pressed against the front of my hoodie. Through the fabric, she had to feel it—my heart was hammering against my ribs like a jackhammer.
We stood there, frozen in the tableau. Her face was inches from my chin. I was holding her up by the scruff of her coat, my other arm effortlessly holding the fifty-pound box.
The scent was overwhelming. Up close, it was a physical drug. I inhaled, my eyes fluttering shut for a fraction of a second. She smelled like fear, yes, but beneath that... desire.
"You," she breathed.
I opened my eyes. Her violet eyes were locked on mine. Her pupils were blown wide, swallowing the iris.
"You have to be careful," I rasped. My voice was wrecked. "Ideally, you shouldn't be here at all."
"I... I slipped," she stammered. She didn't let go of my chest. In fact, her fingers curled into the fabric.
"Obviously." I set the box down on the dry pavement with a thud. I didn't let go of her coat. I told myself it was to steady her. I was a liar. I was holding her because my hands refused to release her.
"Thank you," she said, her voice trembling.
"Don't thank me," I said harshly. "I'm not doing this to be nice. I'm doing it because I don't want to explain a corpse in my driveway to your father."
She flinched, the hurt flashing across her face.
Good. Let her be hurt. Hurt keeps her away.
"You don't have to be so mean," she said, a spark of defiance lighting up her eyes. She pushed against my chest, stepping back out of my grip. "I can handle a box. I’m stronger than I look."
"You're a figure skater," I scoffed, looking her up and down. "You're built like a bird. One wrong fall and you shatter."
"I fall on ice for a living, Rory," she snapped.
The sound of my name on her lips did something terrible to my insides. It felt like a caress.
"You know who I am," I said.
"Everyone knows who you are," she said, brushing snow off her coat. "Rory Thorne. The Enforcer. The guy who put the Michigan center in the hospital last year."
"Then you know you should be running in the other direction."
She looked up at me, tilting her head. The wind blew a stray lock of blonde hair across her face. Without thinking—pure instinct—I reached out and tucked it behind her ear.
Her skin was burning hot against my freezing cold fingertips.
She froze. I froze.
My thumb lingered on her jawline. I could feel her pulse there. Thump. Thump. Thump. It was racing.
"Why aren't you running, Zoe?" I whispered.
She looked at my hand on her face, then up at my eyes. She didn't pull away. She leaned into my touch, just a millimeter. A microscopic surrender.
"Maybe I don't believe the rumors," she whispered back.
"You should."
I snatched my hand back as if I’d been burned. The loss of contact was physically painful.
"Get your boxes inside," I commanded, stepping back, putting distance between us before I did something unforgivable—like kiss her. Or bite her. "And salt the driveway. If you slip again, I’m leaving you there."
I grabbed the heavy tote from the ground.
"Hey!" she protested. "I can get that."
"Open the door," I barked, walking past her toward her porch.
She scrambled to follow me, fumbling for her keys. She unlocked the door to Unit 4B, pushing it open.
I walked into her space.
It was different than mine. Mine was dark, sparse, smelling of leather and unwashed laundry. Hers was... bright. It smelled intensely of her. There were throw pillows. There was art on the walls. It felt like a home.
I set the box down in the living room.
"Rory," she said from the doorway.
I turned. She was standing there, the light from the snow outside framing her like a halo.
"Why do you hate me?" she asked. "We just met. What did I do?"
I looked at her, at the confusion and the hurt in her eyes. She thought I hated her. She thought this tension, this vibrating energy between us, was animosity.
She had no idea.
I took a step toward her. She held her ground.
"I don't hate you, Zoe," I said low. "I’m trying to save you."
"From what?"
"From me."
I walked past her, my arm brushing hers. The static electricity sparked between us, an audible snap.
I walked out onto the porch, down the steps, and into my own unit.
I locked the door.
I leaned against it, my heart pounding so hard my vision blurred.
This was going to be impossible.
I could still feel the heat of her skin on my thumb. I lifted my hand to my face, inhaling sharply.
Vanilla. Freesia. And mine.
I let out a roar of frustration, grabbing the nearest object—a heavy textbook from the side table—and hurled it across the room. It smashed into the wall.
The shared wall.
Silence.
Then, from the other side, a soft, hesitant knock.
Thump. Thump.
She was knocking back.
I slid down the door until I hit the floor. I didn't knock back. But I didn't leave, either. I sat there, pressing my hand against the floorboards, feeling the vibration of her presence, knowing that the cage door was already open, and it was only a matter of time before the Wolf got out.