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But I can’t let her get hurt like that again.
I keep walking, Charlotte still in my arms now, her body warming to mine as we make our way down the beach. I think she’s going to quiet down, but her voice is a whisper when she speaks again.
“Elijah,stop.”
I pause like I’m her obedient mutt.
“What?” I growl.
“My violin,” she says. “Please. Please go back and get it.”
I shut my eyes, exhaling with a grunt. “Fine.”
I turn around and get her damn violin, but I won’t let her go—I’m never letting her go again, as far as I’m concerned.
Not when I almost watched her die.
CHAPTER EIGHT
?
CHARLOTTE
Elijah is really,reallymad at me.
I’m not sure why, exactly. I don’t feel like I did anything but almost die and, if anything, he should be grateful I’m alive. But he refuses to speak to me, and he won’t put me down either as the daylight fades and we make our way down the river.
It’s after dark when Elijah diverts from the riverbank and walks into the woods, still holding me close to his chest. I can feel the steady thrum of his heart against my shoulder, his breath stable even while he hikes up the hill.
“Where are we going?” I ask quietly.
“Safehouse,” he grunts. His voice is strange—raspy and quiet, like his teeth are too sharp—and he’s sounded that way since he pulled me out of the river.
“How do you know about it?”
“I was here a long time ago,” he replies.
I look beyond us into the woods and an old house comes into view through the brush, two stories tall with a rusted out car in front. I squint at it, and at first I think Elijah is going to put me down as we reach the front door, but instead he takes me in one arm and swings me around his front, requiring me to wrap my legs around his waist. Given that he’s still just partially dressed, my cheeks flush at the contact—but he doesn’t seem to notice, wrenching the door open and carrying me across the threshold.
“You can put me down now,” I mutter.
He growls low in his throat.
Okay…so I guess that’s a no.
It’s pitch black in the house, but Elijah seems to be able to see in the dark, carrying me through the empty house with confidence. His arms are tight around me, his breath puffing into my now-dry hair, and I’m grateful at least for his body heat as my wet clothes have started to give me a chill. I yelp when I think he’s about to drop me, but instead I find myself being placed gently on a pile of pillows, groping around for more clues as to where I am.
Elijah’s hand snaps out of the darkness and around my wrist, a growl in his throat.
“Don’t. Move,” he snarls.
I can’t see him, but I can feel the heat rolling off him, and I wonder what he looks like right now. I barely caught a glimpse of him, but I’ve spent the past few hours feeling those muscles, and my mind conjures up wicked images straight from my romance novels as I think about how he felt.
Then a match strikes, the flame making me blanch, and I shield my eyes before looking at him.
Elijah tosses the match into a fireplace, the flames flickering to life as he squats in front of it. His back is to me, his pants in tatters around his waist, and he looks like some kind of wild man with his blond hair in messy locks around his head.
“Elijah?” I whisper.
