Page 210 of These Tears

My finger twitches. Loosens. Tightens again.

‘Please…’ The word barely survives coming out of him.

His eyes move to the bolt, and he sucks in a breath as if bracing.

He… wants me to do it.

My teeth clench together.

In one moment, he’s several feet away from me; in the next, his hand is snapping around the stock of the crossbow. He jerks it aside, pushing the bolt off-line, then tearing the weapon from my grip before I can decide whether I’m relieved or furious at the loss of it. The wound in his arm has made him uneven, his shoulder dragging low, but it did nothing to slow him down.

I twist to run, boots slipping, but his hand clamps around my arm before I’ve taken two steps and his fingers bite through the padding of my snowsuit.

Panicked, I spin back on instinct and my hand flies up – striking his cheek hard enough for the sting to shoot all the way up my wrist. The slap cleaves through the frozen air as Elias’ head whips to the side, and a low, smothered laugh slips out of him.

It shudders straight through my gut.

When he turns to me, his pupils have already devoured the pale blue.

And despite the fear clawing at my ribs, something in my middle clenches in a way that has nothing to do with terror.

A beat.

I dart, but his hand drops to my waist, and he snatches me, hauls me in, spins us both with dizzying force.

The sky lurches. I’m airborne for a second before the ground bites at my back, knocking the breath out of me in a whoof of cold, white powder.

A violent rip follows the impact – the front seam of my snow jacket bursts open beneath his grip. Cold air lunges at my chest and ribs as I wrench myself out of the insulated fabric to get away.

Scrabbling onto my elbows, I kick at him, limbs wild, movements already losing force.

And as I swing my palm again, this time he catches my wrist mid-arc.

His other arm bands around my middle, lugging me up – but not without effort. His wounded side gives and his breath breaks. We both nearly go down.

The solid heat of him rushes through the layers between us.

His breathing is rough against my ear, the hard, unmistakable evidence of his arousal pressed to my hip for a fleeting, shaming second as he drives my back against the smokehouse—

—and presses his mouth to mine.

Shock.

Fear.

Need.

They detonate together, and I hate that I recognise each one.

His lips are rough with the cold, beard wet with melted snow.

Fragments of sounds pass between us. No never forms properly. Yes blooms and dies in the same instance.

And I…

Melt.

But only for a second.