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I stay.
I stare.
And I remind myself to breathe.
“Gwyneth, I told you to step back.”
“And I’m obviously refusing to.”
“Did you just say you refuse to?”
“Yeah. Why? Are you scared of something?”
He steps forward and I startle, jumping away so suddenly that my back hits hard metal. It’s the car, I realize. I’m plastered against the door, and I mean glued to it, like it’s my lifeline, because it suddenly feels like it now that he’s close.
Like as close as when I kissed him. When I got on my tiptoes and just went for it. And now, I’m staring at his sinfully-proportioned lips. At how they’re only a breath away because he’s hovering—looming over me and blocking the sun and the air and every natural element.
He’s a god, after all. And gods can totally control the elements and leave me gasping on nonexistent oxygen.
He’s not touching me, but I’m full of those little tingles, those sharp needle-like stings, and I can’t help it. Just like I can’t help the blood that came out after that prick from the glass. It’s natural.
It’s chemical.
It’s how it’s supposed to be.
“Do you truly think that, Gwyneth? That I’m scared?”
“Well, aren’t you?”
“Do I look scared to you?”
I study him then, like really look at him and the strong lines of his face and how lethally handsome he is, because he takes his god image seriously. He’s always groomed to perfection, beautiful to the point it hurts in my non-desensitized heart. Because I didn’t add that word to the negative notebook.
Heart.
But yeah, he definitely doesn’t look scared. I’ve never seen Nate scared or anxious or any of the things that we humans are plagued with. But his face isn’t stuck in that rigid aloof expression either.
There’s a tightness in his body, a tic in his jaw, and a look in his eyes that I don’t recognize. I’ve never seen it before. I’ve never seen that lowering of his lids or the dilating of his pupils.
And it’s a bit scary.
Or maybe a lot scary, because I’m shivering uncontrollably. Is he trying to scare me? Trying to make me out as some sort of a criminal that he has to break down just because I talked back?
“Answer the question, Gwyneth.”
“No.”
“No, what?”
“No, you don’t look scared.”
“Then how do I look?”
Scary.But I don’t say that, because that would mean I can’t hold my own, and I can totally do that. Hold my own. Now, I just need to convince my unreliable brain of that fact.
“I don’t know,” I say instead.
“You don’t, huh?”
