XXXVIII #2
“Hounds,” he said, eyes never leaving the slick asphalt. “Things the Lanterns dragged too close to this side and lost control of.”
My attention drifted to his hands on the wheel—the long, elegant fingers that had held one of those hounds by its throat.
“And you?” I asked. “What you did back there?”
“Something expensive.”
“And you think the Lantern Society did this on purpose?” My voice dropped. “The attack wasn’t an accident?”
He gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod.
“I think they were waiting to see what you’d do.”
“And what did I do?”
His expression didn’t change, but his eyes slid from the road to meet mine.
“You survived.”
My gaze fell to the silver band on my wrist. The runes were dull now, like cooled metal. No hum. Just dead weight.
“So, they think I’m a threat.”
He didn’t deny it.
“In their world, that’s worse than being a bystander. If those hounds are loose, your father’s work is involved. And if he’s involved . . . ”
“So am I,” I finished.
Hope and dread tangled in my chest. I looked out at the passing trees.
“Do you think he’s—”
“Alive?” Heaton’s expression softened, like a winter thaw, but his eyes stayed on the road. “I think if he were gone, the spirits would be quieter.”
His gaze drifted toward the dark line of the mountains.
“They’re not quiet, Madeline. Not even close.”
Hope flickered—small, fragile, and stubborn as a weed growing through concrete.
The town surfaced through the mist, scattered rooftops and pale picket-fence teeth rising to meet us through the gray smear of morning.
We wound down the canyon in slow, careful curves, the Nova’s engine a low purr beneath us. Pines flashed past in dark green blurs. Morning light spilled across the windshield in pale gold bands.
Then the car hit a rut.
The impact was a deep, jarring thud. My ribs went white-hot, and a strangled gasp tore from my throat as I pitched sideways.
Before I could hit the door, Heaton’s arm was there—a steel band around my waist, hauling me across the bench seat and into the hard line of him. I ended up half in his lap, hands braced against his chest, my face inches from the cold, clean scent of his jacket.
“Sit still,” he said.
His voice was a low vibration against my temple, utterly calm. His hand rested firm and possessively over my ribs, right above the injury.
“I—”
I tried to push back, my muscles trembling with a mix of pain and panic. His grip tightened just enough to stop me, a silent, unyielding command.
“You’re still healing,” he said, silver eyes fixed on the winding road ahead. “Try not to make this worse.”
“Heaton,” I whispered.
“Mm?”
He finally glanced down.
Only for a second. But that second was enough.
Silver eyes, half-lidded and impossibly sharp, bored into me. The Ghost Flower had sanded the edge off him just enough to make him looser, not softer.
My pulse went wild, and the bond told on me instantly.
His jaw ticked, and a slow, knowing smirk touched his lips.
The Nova dropped into another curve. He adjusted me without thinking, one broad hand sliding higher at my side, careful of my ribs, anchoring me through the turn.
“You’re not even watching the road,” I managed, my head spinning as the bond pulsed, a magnetic weight pinning me against him. “This is—”
“Convenient?” he offered, the word a soft breath against my skin.
“Dangerous.”
A low, amused sound escaped him, dark as smoke.
He took his other hand off the wheel.
The car didn’t swerve.
It held its line as if the road itself had agreed to behave.
His free hand moved to my jaw, thumb hooking beneath my chin, forcing my head up until all I could see was the fractured silver of his eyes.
“The car’s driving, Madeline.”
His next breath carried that same clean citrus sting.
“I’m busy.”
My heartbeat became a frantic staccato he was surely savoring through the wires of our shared nervous system.
“Comfortable?” he asked, tracing the erratic jump of my pulse against my throat, measuring the lie before I could tell it.
“No.”
Yes, my entire body screamed.
“Good.”
His fingers migrated from my jaw, trailing down my neck to rest heavily on my thigh. Even through denim, his palm felt like a brand of cold iron.
“You should’ve told me your ribs hurt this much.”
“You didn’t ask.”
“I didn’t have to.”
His thumb grazed the seam of my jeans, a slow, unhurried pressure that made my breath hitch.
“I felt it.”
He looked back at the road, posture infuriatingly relaxed, as if I weren’t half-sprawled across his lap with the bond sparking between us.
“You could put me back,” I muttered.
“I could.”
Another turn. Another pulse of pain.
His hand flexed once at my waist, keeping me steady before the movement could wrench my ribs again.
“Do you actually want me to?”
The question landed in the car like a lit match.
I opened my mouth.
Nothing came out.
Because the humiliating answer was no.
Not yet. Not while the road was still bending under us, his hand was still at my side, and my body was painfully, traitorously aware of how well it fit there.
The bond surged—bright, wanting, painfully exposed—broadcasting everything I was trying to bury.
“Didn’t think so.”
He laughed, and the bond—the traitor that it was—vibrated in my chest as if it were laughing with him.
Then the road leveled out.
Heaton eased me back into my seat with infuriating care, and a second later, the Nova rolled to a stop behind Ford’s truck.