15. Stop My Racing Heart
Selene
The darkness of the room closes in around me. The only light is the silver glow of the moon spilling through the bay window.
I move to the window seat, fingers brushing the velvet pillows. I need the silence. I need a second to pull myself together and get my breathing under control.
“Hey… it was almost our turn.”
I jump.
My heart lurches straight into my throat.
I whip around.
Of course he followed me.
Ron is standing in the doorway, his figure cut out against the darker hall behind him. He steps inside, closing the distance between us like it means nothing at all.
“I hate this game,” I mutter, pressing back against the edge of the window seat, wishing I could disappear into the wall. Our bedroom.
Ron stops a step away. He tilts his head, and even in the dim light I catch the hint of a crooked smile.
“I bet you’d actually like it,” he murmurs.
I roll my eyes dramatically, hoping the shadows hide the heat in my face.
"Truth or dare, Selene?"
The world stops.
When he says my name like that—with that raspy, low, private tone, like it's a secret meant only for me—I physically forget how to breathe. My lungs empty all at once.
"Not a chance," I reply, shaking my head.
He shifts his weight from one foot to the other and crosses his arms over his massive chest.
"What's wrong?" he teases me. "Are you scared of a harmless new-cowboy?"
I know exactly what game he's playing. And yet, I lose anyway.
“Dare,” I say, lifting my chin.
The second it leaves my mouth, I see his grin widen, and I immediately regret it. I wish I could take it back, rewind, sew my mouth shut—anything.
Ron tilts his head, leaning in even closer.
I can smell him now.
“Mhm… so you like it…”
“Nothing sexual,” I cut in immediately.
Ron’s expression shifts. The smirk fades, replaced by something calmer—steady, serious.
“Who do you think I am?” he says quietly. “I would never dare you to do anything non-consensual. Never.”
Of course he wouldn't. He's Ron Willers.
And yet, he has to be an asshole. After all, all men are.
"I dare you to tell me one thing about yourself every day," he continues, bringing his tone back to a lighter, conspiring frequency as that dimple pops again. "At my explicit request. For the entire time we're on this reality show."
My eyes go wide.
What?
If he’d asked me to strip, I think I’d have felt safer.
I know how to handle physical stuff. I know how to switch my brain off when it comes to sex.
But emotional intimacy? Letting someone get inside my head every single day?
That’s what scares me.
“No way,” I say, shaking my head.
“I’ll tell you one about me,” he says, immediately, like it’s a counteroffer.
“Doesn’t make it any more interesting,” I lie.
Ron takes a step closer.
I end up with my back almost against the window seat, trapped between him and the wall of wood behind me.
"One question each, per day..." he whispers, dipping his face toward mine. "It won't kill you, Dusk."
I stare at the curve of his lips in the shadows. I feel the heat of his body brushing against mine in the freezing gloom, and I lose the last, fragile crumb of my resistance.
I let out a long, impossibly heavy sigh of surrender.
"What is it with you," I grumble, "and always needing to talk?"
He chuckles. It's a low, warm, vibrating sound that brushes over my skin. The faint ray of moonlight catches his face for a second, and those fucking dimples carve into his cheeks, coming dangerously, lethally close to killing me on the spot.
Twenty minutes later, I turn off the shower.
I quickly dry my heated skin and wrap myself in my black terry cloth robe. I reach for my clean clothes and... nothing.
I bite my tongue in frustration. I obviously left my bag with my clothes and pajamas on the bed in the room. All Ron's fault, obviously. That man has the diabolical ability to melt my brain and short-circuit my most basic thoughts.
I take a deep breath, clutch the black edges of the robe over my chest, and slowly open the bathroom door, slipping back into our master bedroom.
The only source of light now is the small bedside lamp turned on atop the carved wooden nightstand, casting a warm, golden glow over the covers.
"No, buddy, down," Ron is murmuring, his voice reduced to a sweet, slightly stern whisper.
Ollie is comfortably sprawled right in the middle of the mattress, wagging his tail like he's the king of the world.
"Down," Ron insists, giving him gentle pats on the thigh to encourage him to get off. "You can't be up here this time, buddy... we can't bother Selene."
I take another step on the creaking floorboards.
At the sound, Ron's head snaps up, realizing I've walked back into the room.
He goes completely silent as his blue eyes slide from my face, trace the line of my neck, and then dive down to my bare legs.
His Adam's apple bobs sharply, visibly, as he swallows hard.
He's probably uncomfortable because he expects me to start screaming at him for letting Ollie on the bed.
"He can stay," I say, crossing my arms and pulling the robe tighter.
Ron jumps slightly, like I just woke him from a trance. He lifts his gaze, bringing it back to my face, and clears his throat. When he speaks, his voice is unrecognizable: hoarse, raspy, fractured.
"Sorry... it's just that he usually loves sleeping at my feet..."
I shrug, feigning an ease I definitely don't feel. "It's fine. Really."
Feeling suddenly authorized, Ollie lets out a joyful whine. He hops clumsily off the mattress and trots happily over to me. He sits at my feet and starts licking my damp calves and bare knees with his warm, sloppy tongue.
"Ollie, no... God..." Ron drags a hand over his face, closing his eyes for a second, looking like he's suffering through his own personal agony. "You're getting her dirty. Buddy, we need to learn how to behave properly."
"It's fine," I reassure him, reaching down to give the dog a scratch. It's just a little Labrador slobber, after all. Nothing that's going to kill me.
I look back at Ron.
He finally took that cowboy hat off.
It feels weird seeing him like this. I’m not used to it.
His dark hair is slightly wavy. He pushes it back from his forehead, a nervous habit I’m starting to notice.
It looks soft. Really soft.
Without the shadow of the brim cast over his face, his eyes stand out blindingly bright, two shards of clear sky. He is beautiful in a way that almost hurts. Breathtakingly beautiful.
"What's wrong?" I ask him, furrowing my brow slightly.
He stares at me, blinking. "What do you mean?"
"I mean you usually aren't..." I wave a finger in the air, gesturing to his rigid posture, his tense shoulders, his total lack of chatter. "Like this. You look nervous."
The corner of his mouth lifts in a tight smile. He pulls one of his funny faces, throwing his hands up in surrender, but his eyes keep shining with that strange, incomprehensible darkness.
"Careful now..." he murmurs, trying to scrape back his usual playful tone. "You have a heart of gold, Dusk. You're throwing me for a loop. I don't know how to act after this discovery."
"Let's not exaggerate," I huff, rolling my eyes.
"Well..." He shoves his hands into the pockets of his jeans and looks at me softly. "You love Ollie, and in your own twisted way, you worry about me. At least admit that you're kind... you know, that's not a quality to be underestimated."
I pull the robe even tighter around myself, lifting my chin, but I can't hold back the hint of a pleased smile.
"I've been called far worse things, Willers."