Chapter Fifty-Five
Ruby
I don’t like that he said they’ll be back. I know he’s right, but I don’t like it. The silence that follows feels louder than the noise of the drill ever did.
I’m standing at the counter, hands braced against the edge, staring at nothing while the house settles around us, wood creaking, the faint hum of the lights, the motion sensor outside clicking on and off like something’s still moving out there. And maybe it is.
Behind me, I hear him set the drill down. Metal against wood. Adding another layer of protection to the back door. A pause. Then his boots on the floor.
Closer. I don’t turn around. I should. I don’t.
“You missed one,” I say, even though I’m not looking. My voice comes out tight, sharper than I intend. I hate this. I hate that someone’s messing with my life. I hate that I can’t stop it. And I hate it even more that having him here is causing the walls to close in around me.
“Where?”
His voice is closer, which sends a shiver along my spine. I should’ve stayed at Bella’s. Being a third wheel is better than this…. This protection that’s based on guilt. This closeness that’s built on obligation. This fucking intimacy that’s not real.
I point without thinking, over my shoulder toward the corner of the frame. My arm brushes his as I do, and the contact is quick, accidental…. He doesn’t move away. Neither do I.
“It’s fine.”
“It’s not fine,” I snap. “None of this is fine.”
“I didn’t say it was.”
“Yes, you did. You just said it.” I fist my hands to keep them from shaking. “Just stop acting as if you can fix it.”
Silence. Too close. Too much. The hair on the back of my neck stands.
I turn then, meaning to put space between us. There isn’t any. He’s right there. Close enough that I have to tilt my head back to meet his eyes. Close enough that I see the tension locked in his jaw, the way his hands flex at his sides like he’s holding onto something and/or holding back.
“Move.” He doesn’t. My pulse kicks. “You’re in my space.”
His gaze drops, quick, involuntary, then back up again.
“You didn’t move.” A muscle in his jaw flexes.
That shouldn’t matter. It does. I take a breath, meaning to step around him.
His hand comes up, light, not grabbing, just enough to stop me at my arm. Everything in me goes still. “Don’t.”
It’s not a command. Not soft either. Something in between.
My heart is beating too fast. “You don’t get to–”
“I know,” he cuts in as wind rattles the window. That stops me because there’s no argument in it. No defense. Just… acknowledgment. And that makes it worse.
“You keep saying one thing.” The words coming faster now, sharper, because if I don’t keep talking I’m going to feel too much. “And then you show up and do something different, like I’m supposed to what, pretend that doesn’t mean anything?”
His hand tightens on my arm. Not enough to hurt. Enough to hold. “I didn’t say it didn’t mean anything.”
“You didn’t say it did.” His jaw flexes again. We’re too close. I feel his breath now, steady but not as controlled as it was a minute ago. “That’s the problem.” I swallow hard to keep my voice from cracking. “You don’t get to act like this and then pretend it’s nothing when it matters.”
“It does matter.” The words land low. Rough. My stomach twists.
Anger and frustration course through me. “Then stop acting like it doesn’t.”
His hand slides from my arm, down, then back up, settling at my elbow like he’s deciding where he’s allowed to touch and where he isn’t. “That’s not what I’m doing.”
“It is.” I take a step back, but his hand doesn’t drop from my arm.
I want to shake it off, but at the same time, I don’t want him to stop touching me.
As much as I hate it, I want more. Even though I know he’ll break me into pieces.
“You drew the line. I stayed on my side of it. And now you’re mad about it. ”
“I’m not mad at you.”
“Then what’re you mad at?” He doesn’t answer right away. Doesn’t move either. Just stands there, close enough that the space between us feels like it’s shrinking by the second.
“At myself.”
I blink at the raw vulnerability in his expression. That shouldn’t change anything, but it does. I don’t know if it changes enough.
“Yeah.” I straighten my shoulders. “Well. That’s not my problem.”
“Isn’t it?”
My breath catches at the low tone of his voice. It curls around my body, tightening what is best left unaffected by him. But when am I not affected by him? I try to step back again.
This time, his hand shifts higher on my arm, firmer. Not trapping and not letting me go either.
“Xavier–”
“I left,” he says, cutting me off. “I sent that message as none of this mattered. Like you didn’t matter.”
Pain stabs in my chest, nearly knocking me over. Knowing what he did and hearing him say it out loud are clearly two different levels of pain. “I didn’t ask you to–”
“I know.” His voice is rougher. Jaw tighter. Brows lower. “That’s the point.”
My chest squeezes. Too much. Too fast. “Then why are you here?” I mean it as a challenge. It doesn’t sound like one.
“Because you didn’t call.”
“Don’t make this about your ego.”
His eyes flash as his nostrils flare. “This isn’t about my ego.
” His hand slides from my arm to my waist before I can process it, not pulling, just there, solid, grounding, impossible to ignore.
“This is about someone who could’ve hurt you, and you made the conscious decision not to tell me. That kills me.”
“I don’t need you to feel some kind of weird obligation to protect me.”
“But I do.” His eyes are grave as they meet mine. “I’m not walking away from it either.”
My pulse is loud in my ears. This is a mistake. I know it. He knows it. Everything about this says stop. I don’t.
My hands come up without thinking, pushing against his chest, not hard enough to move him. Just enough to feel him. Solid. Real. Too close.
“You’re making this worse.” My voice comes out as a low whisper.
“Probably.” His thumb shifts against my side, sending a delicious chill along my skin.
My breath catches. I should move. I don’t. He doesn’t do relationships, and I’m not the kind of person people stay for. It’s wrong. But it feels right. Or inevitable.
The space between us disappears in slow increments. Him stepping in. Me not stepping back. Until there’s nothing left of it.
My heart is racing as thunder rumbles again, closer this time. “This doesn’t change anything.”
“Didn’t say it would.” His voice is lower now as his eyes darken with unmistakable desire. Closer. The air feels tight. Charged.
My gaze drops to his mouth. That’s all it takes. His hand tightens at my waist, pulling me in the rest of the way. The first contact isn’t soft. Not tentative. It’s immediate, friction, heat, everything we’ve been holding back hitting all at once.
I kiss him back before I can think about it. Before I can stop it. My hands fist in his shirt, dragging him closer, like there’s any space left to close. There isn’t.
His other hand comes up, stroking my jaw, my neck, holding me there as the kiss deepens, rougher than it should be, sharper, like neither of us is easing into it. There’s no easing—just impact.
My back hits the counter. I barely register it. Everything is him. His hands, his breath, the way he says my name under his breath like he didn’t mean to. Like it slipped.
That shouldn’t matter. It does.
I pull him closer. He lets me. Doesn’t slow it down. Doesn’t soften it. This isn’t gentle. This isn’t careful. This is everything we didn’t say coming out in a whirlwind of frantic movements.
I break the kiss long enough to breathe. Our chests heaving, pushing against each other. “This is a bad idea.”
“Yeah.”
He doesn’t move away. Neither do I. As desire floods through every inch of my body, I shove all the uncertainty away. I want this. I want him. Us. No matter what the consequences are.
My fingers dig in his shirt again, pulling him back in before either of us can pretend we’re going to stop.