Page 55 of Love at First Fright

I blinked up at him. What the hell?

He heaved. Brad’s massive frame didn’t budge an inch. Charlie’s face went red with effort, biceps straining through his jumpsuit.

“Get up!” he snapped.

I stared. Why was he trying to help this absolute tosser? Brad had been nothing but horrible to him.

For a moment, I almost felt angry at Charlie.

Except it wasn’t anger. Not really.

Because Charlie was too good. Too kind. Too bloody lovely, standing here in this nightmare basement trying to save someone who’d been awful to him.

The cold I’d been pouring into the air dissipated. The dread I’d been feeding into Charlie’s veins evaporated like steam. I couldn’t maintain it whilst puppeting Brad’s body—possession took a lot of concentration, and right now I was entirely focused on making limbs move, lungs breathe.

Charlie glanced around. His shoulders dropped half an inch. He seemed to notice the absence—the way the oppressive terror had lifted.

He grabbed Brad’s fallen torch. Shone it directly in my face.

I flinched as Brad’s pupils contracted painfully.

“What’s wrong with you?”

“Uhh… nothing.” Time to change tactics. I climbed to my feet, using the wall for balance. Brad’s knees wobbled. “But you’re right. Let’s leave the basement.”

Suspicion flickered across Charlie’s features. “Really?”

We stood inches apart in this cramped, stone coffin of a space. Too close. The torch beam between us carved harsh shadows on Charlie’s face, made his cheekbones stand out sharp and fine.

Heat radiated from his body. Living heat. Heat I hadn’t felt in years.

My throat tightened. Brad’s throat. I wasn’t Brad, and I needed to remember that.

This close, I could see everything. The gold wire rims of Charlie’s glasses. The way his curls caught the torchlight, turning honey-blond. A tiny scar on his forehead. The crinkle of worry etched between his brows.

Before I knew what Brad’s hand was doing, I’d reached out. Touched that warm, lovely forehead, with its soft skin. Tried to smooth the worry lines away.

Charlie went absolutely still.

“What… What are you doing?” His voice dropped to a whisper.

Shit.

“Sorry.” I snatched Brad’s hand back. But the damage was done. The thrill of being in an actual living body—skin touching skin, warmth meeting warmth—it warped every bit of common sense I possessed. “You had… dust on you.”

The frown deepened. “Your voice is all weird.”

“No it’s not!” Too defensive. Too high. I couldn’t quite nail Brad’s particular brand of aggressive swagger, even with his voicebox at my disposal. “I’m just… tired, that’s all. I tried to bash that door in too hard. Silly me.”

I should have insisted we leave. Marched Charlie up those stairs right then. Mission accomplished—get him away from the basement door, away from danger.

But holy shit, standing that close to him. Having a body again. Feeling the air move in and out of lungs, blood pulsing through veins. Seeing Charlie lit by torchlight, his chest rising and falling with each breath.

I hadn’t touched another human—warm, living flesh—since the day I died. However many years ago that was. And since carrying him yesterday, it was all I could think about.

My arm moved without permission. Reached out again.

“So much dust,” I murmured, brushing down one shoulder. Then the other.