Page 114 of Haunted Spurs

"Are you doing better?" she whispers in the dark. Her voice is heavy with sincere, almost rough concern, her fingers brushing my sweaty jawline to check on me.

"Yeah," I answer, and it is the absolute truth. I hold her a little tighter, closing my eyes. "I'm okay. Thanks to you."

I slide my fingers over the last block of cold metal holding us prisoner. Before opening it, though, I lean down until I brush her hair.

"By the way..." I murmur, my tone suddenly hardening, stripped of all sweetness. "I want to make you a promise, Selly. If I ever, in my entire life, cross paths with this Jim... I swear to God I will smash his face in with my bare hands. And I am not joking."

I feel her breath hitch for a fraction of a second. Then, a soft, almost relieved sigh escapes her lips. She doesn't scold me. She doesn't tell me to stop acting like a caveman. She simply gives a weak nod against my chest.

I pop the last padlock open. Clack.

I push the heavy wooden door of the crate open. The hinges groan, and the cold, damp, musty air of the cellar hits us full force, bringing with it the dim glow of the red emergency lights installed by production.

We stumble out. The contrast between total darkness and the dim light makes me blink, but my first instinct isn't to step away or enjoy the newly found space.

It's to look for her hand.

I reach out, and my fingers find hers. I lace them together without hesitation, palm against palm, anchoring her to me. Selene doesn't pull away. On the contrary, she squeezes my hand as if she was about to look for mine, too.

We stop in the middle of the underground stone corridor, ignoring the muffled sounds of the other couples struggling in their crates.

I turn to face her. Her raven hair is messy, her wide dark eyes scanning my face with silent devotion, just to make sure my panic attack is truly over.

I look at her over my shoulder, and I feel the ground drop out from under my boots.

"Favorite chocolate?" I ask, just like that, out of the blue.

Selene's eyes go wide for a second, caught off guard by my sudden return to normalcy, then a shadow of amusement softens her features.

"Dark," she decrees, without hesitating. She squeezes my hand as we walk toward the stairs. "You?"

"White with raspberries."

She stops mid-stride, pulling me back slightly. She looks at me like I just confessed to a crime.

"Seriously, new-cowboy?" she asks, wrinkling her nose in a deliciously displeased expression. "You are truly weird."

I laugh. A real laugh that clears my lungs of the last trace of claustrophobia.

I turn my body to face her completely. I don't let go of her hand. I lower my face toward hers, losing myself in the brown depths of her eyes.

"But do you like me at least a little?" I hazard, my tone low.

I hold my breath, expecting the inevitable. I expect her to roll her eyes, cross her arms, and hit me with her classic, icy: In your dreams, Willers.

Selene stares at me. Her gaze slides from my mouth up to my eyes. I watch her fighting a war with herself. I see the wall tremble, crack, and, finally, cave in.

Her lips part just a fraction.

And, in a whisper so faint I have to strain to hear it, she murmurs: "Despite myself."

The entire world stops spinning.

Despite myself.

A crazy, irrepressible smile takes over my face, and I know with absolute, terrifying certainty that I am a completely, hopelessly fucked man. And I couldn't be happier about it.

Haunted Spurs: Highlights of the Last Few Weeks