Something in his voice makes my chest ache harder than the wound.
Not anger.
Fear.
Real fear.
For me.
I look away first.
Big mistake.
Because the second I do, I become hyperaware of everything.
The heat of his body against mine.
His arm still around me.
The rough scrape of his fingers against my jacket.
The fact that I haven’t moved away.
“I don’t have time for this,” I say softly.
Weak argument.
Even I hear it.
Russ shifts slightly closer instead of farther away.
“You don’t have time to feel something?”
“That’s not what this is.”
“Then what is it?”
I open my mouth.
Nothing comes out.
Because I honestly don’t know.
And that terrifies me more than being shot did.
“Look at me.”
The words are quiet.
Not a command.
Worse.
A request.
I hesitate anyway.
Then slowly lift my eyes back to his.
