‘Vacation home’is a generous euphemism for the single-room shanty Dusk acquired for us.
The moment we’re left to our own devices by Amit, I’m taken aback by the sheer amount of colorful rugs and linens that try—and fail—to hide how run-down the place is.
For furniture, it has a fridge, stove, table, some cabinets, and a bed. One, singular bed. If I’ve learned anything from spicy romance novels, that could very well be intentional. Or, it could just be my hormones going wild, because just the thought of sharing a bed with him brings a chill to my skin and a heat to my core.
While Dusk fetches some things from the vehicle, I sit down on the corner of the bed, staring hard at the floor and mentally reprimanding myself.
This is a holy, supernatural creature that I’m dealing with.
Not only are we different species, but he’s also unfathomablyolder than me. Older than my father, his father, my country… probably even my entire recorded family tree. For all I know, he could have been drinking buddies with the Mesopotamians. It’s repulsive. I should be repulsed.
Twiddling my thumbs, I try to imagine his body as old and decrepit as he actually is, but it doesn’t work very well.
When he finally returns, I jerk my eyes up, finding he’s carrying a fold-up sleeping cot. Which is great, I guess. I wouldn’treallywant him to be so presumptuous. I’m definitely not disappointed.
No, definitely not.
“So, husband,” I say sarcastically, making sure I’ve caught hisattention before I gesture vaguely around us, “our new vacation home is quite the rustic retreat.”
Dusk sets the rest of the luggage down before leaning against the wall, a smile teasing his lips. “Yes, my lovely wife.Considering the options available in the locale, I think it’s more than fitting for one night. You may be forgetting that people in the kibbutz don’t usually give up property to outsiders, butespeciallynot for unmarried couples, living in sin together.”
A sliver of falling natural light slips in through the windows, catching on Dusk’s skin like it’s made of diamonds.
I swear he wasn’t this stunning mere minutes ago.
I’m starting to suspect he diminishes his golden glow when he’s around anyone but me, which leaves me to wonder why I’d be an exception. Surely it’s not because I’m the only one who knows his secret… Or is it?
I decide to bait him, putting my palms on the bed behind me as I lean back in casual confidence. “Telling them you’re an angel wasn’t enough to get you a free pass?”
His cat-like eyes stay fixed upon me, darkening, as he takes a step towards me. Considering the tight space, it closes a considerable distance between us. “What makes you think I did that?”
Awkwardly, I laugh, instantly losing all my confidence. Why is he gettingso close?Holy fuck, I’m already sitting on a bed.
“They just seem… off.” My hands shift to a loose thread on the quilt, picking at it. “I don’t know. Are they 144k?”
“Would it matter if they were?” The intensity of his devastating focus ensnares me, and he takes another step, effectively closing all the remaining distance between us. He’s so close, he’s standing between my legs, looking down at me.
“They’re, uh…” For a moment, I forget how to think, too busy marveling at how the shadows catch on the angles of his face.
“They’re what?”
“Terrorists.” I swallow the hard lump in my throat. “They’re terrorists.”
“They’re the only people who believe the apocalypse is here, so you call them terrorists?” The corner of his lips quirk up. “Careful, darling. You’re in that bucket too now. Both of us are. Does that make us terrorists, too?”
“Of course not.”
“Are you sure?” He tilts his head to the side, his eyes both searching and taunting. “I think I might be terrorizing you.”
“What? No.”
“Then why is your heart beating so fast?” A wide, devious smile flashes across him, and his voice drops an octave to a velvet-smooth pitch—one I’ve never heard from him before. “Tell me, my pretty little Dawn, and be honest: How do you really feel about me?”
“Um…” I stammer, searching for the right answer to such a loaded question. My body feels like putty, desperate for him to mould me. If I wanted to, I could serve myself up to him. His hungry eyes are practically begging me for it.
Suddenly, I can’t seem to remember my reasons for keeping this relationship platonic. Something to do with us technically being two different species, with an age gap larger than I can even comprehend? The fact that he’s a cocky asshole who gave me nightmares for months? With the way he’s looking at me right now, though, those reasons are starting to seem a lot more like mild inconveniences than any significant problem.
A deflection slips out of me, “You’re good company, I suppose.”
