Page 36 of The Ashes of Summer

He's standing so close I don't know how he got there without me hearing him. My pulse stutters as I instinctively recoil, but there's nowhere to go. He follows immediately, one step forcing another from me until my back collides with the brass pole hard enough to rattle through my spine.

The cold metal bites between my shoulder blades.

"No..."

The word barely escapes before I twist sideways, trying to slip past him, but he catches me with frightening ease. His hand closes around both of my wrists, swallowing them whole, and before I can wrench free he drives them up above my head, pinning them against the pole.

The brass digs into my skin. I buck instinctively, every muscle straining against his grip, my fingers curling uselessly as I fight for even an inch of movement. It doesn't matter. His hold doesn't shift. Doesn't tighten. It doesn't need to. I can't move him.

My breathing comes fast and uneven, each breath shallower than the last as panic climbs back into my throat. Jackson doesn't seem to notice. Or maybe he does. Maybe he just doesn't care.

He stands impossibly still, his head tipping ever so slightly to one side, studying me with an intensity that makes my skin prickle. His eyes move over my face as though he's searching for something hidden beneath it, something only he can see.

I don't recognize the expression looking back at me. I think that's what frightens me most.

"Donnie."

He never looks away.

"Leave us."

Chapter 11

We Need To Change This

Summer

The click of the door echoes through the room as Donnie leaves.

My eyes lift back to Jackson. He hasn't looked away from me since he forced my wrists above my head, and whatever burns behind his eyes makes something deep inside me recoil. It isn't hatred. It isn't lust. It's something older than either of those things. Something that feels worn into the very fabric of him, as though he's looking beneath my skin instead of at it, searching for something only he can see.

"Jackson," I whisper, my voice catching somewhere behind my ribs.

He doesn't answer.

My pulse crashes against my throat while he studies me in silence, his expression unreadable. Then he leans in.

I freeze.

The rough scrape of stubble brushes my cheek as he slowly traces the line of my neck, drawing a measured breath that sends nausea twisting through my stomach. Every muscle in my body locks. I don't understand what he's doing, and somehow that's worse than if I did.

His free hand rises, the backs of his fingers ghosting over my cheek with unbearable care. Too gentle. Far too gentle. His hand lingers before drifting higher, disappearing into the auburn strands framing my face. He gathers a lock of hair between his fingers, rolling it slowly as his eyes follow the movement.

Something changes. It's almost imperceptible.

"We need to change this," he murmurs, more to himself than to me.

The words drift into the space between us, calm and matter-of-fact, as though he's commenting on the weather or deciding a room needs repainting.

My stomach drops so violently it feels as though the floor disappears beneath me.

No.

My mouth parts, desperate to force the word out before whatever decision he's just made becomes real, but nothing comes. My tongue feels thick. My throat refuses to work. Panic presses down on my chest until even drawing breath becomes an effort, each inhale catching somewhere behind my ribs.

His hand slips from my hair, trailing slowly down the side of my face before settling against my shoulder. The weight of it is steady. Certain.

His gaze drifts over every inch of my face with painstaking concentration, lingering for a moment too long before moving on, only to circle back again. His brow gradually tightens, frustration creeping into the tiny lines around his eyes, like he's standing in front of a painting that's almost identical to the one he remembers—except for one detail he can't quite place.