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Then I saw his face. He was furious, and the anger was driving him. He was thundering towards me like a steam train with its boiler fully stoked. Chyort!
My lungs were straining, now, my thighs and quads burning. I tried to focus on running but I could hear him behind me, each footstep seeming to shake the ground. I was a squirrel, chased by an angry bear. Prey.
And just for a second, a wisp of silver twisted down through my body and tugged at something dark and secret, sending heat spreading through my groin. A tiny part of me wanted him to catch me.
Then I came to my senses and ran. I ran so fast my feet barely brushed the ground, so fast it didn’t feel as much like running as falling, plunging forwards at the very edge of control, one slip away from disaster. And still I could hear him, grunting and panting behind me, close and getting closer. I pushed on, pumping my arms and clawing at the air, eyes locked on the forest ahead of me.
His fingers brushed my shoulder and I flinched away and managed to push myself just a little faster. Come on! He touched me again and I strained and pushed, my legs screaming. Then his fingers closed around my shoulder and, this time, I had nothing more to give. I was smaller, maybe theoretically I was faster, but he’d beaten me with sheer power.
He wrenched and I went down hard, tumbling into the thankfully soft grass. I’d been going so fast that I bounced and rolled over twice before I came to a stop.
He had so much momentum that it took him a few seconds to stumble to a stop. By the time he marched over to me, I was on my feet, shaky from the tumble I’d taken.
We stared at each other. He was at least as exhausted from the run as I was, that huge chest heaving and sweat pouring down his forehead. But the panting and red face only made him more intimidating. He stabbed a finger at me and then pointed to his feet. Come here.
I shook my head, not bothering to speak. I figured I should save my air.
He roared, a sound that shook the forest, and ran at me. I jumped back a few steps, panicked, dodging his hands as he grabbed for me. God, the amber in those big brown eyes was on fire, glowing like the core of the earth. His gaze kept flicking down to my breasts and it clicked that my chest was heaving a lot, too, and I wasn’t wearing a bra. He was mad and horny. And maybe mad that he was horny. What really troubled me was that every ounce of heat he glared at me seemed to ripple down my body and coalesce in my groin.
“You tied my laces?” he growled, and grabbed for me.
I dodged. “See?” I hissed. “I know a few knots, too.”
“I oughta put you over my knee, just for that.”
“Promises, promises,” I panted. Then flushed. Chyort! Where did that come from?!
He ran at me and I scurried backwards, praying there wasn’t a rogue tree root or stone behind me. He was so overwhelmingly big! The rising sun was behind him, edging him in fire and trapping me in his huge, cold shadow. I frantically looked around for a weapon, a hiding place, some clever trick...but there was nothing, just him and me.
He surged forward again and his hand closed on my wrist. My judo training took over: I ducked, twisted and pulled and he flipped and crashed down on his back. But he was up again in a second, looking even madder. Why is he so angry? It wasn’t personal.
And then I saw something in his eyes I hadn’t noticed before. It had been lost beneath all that heat. Hurt. He was hurt that I’d run. He’d thought that we’d made a connection.
My instinct was to mock him, to laugh at his weakness. With any other man, I would have done. But with Colton...the words turned to ash on my tongue.
That cruelty people like me have, it’s a defense mechanism, something taught to us in training as a way to distance ourselves. We learn that emotions—real emotions—are a weakness, something to be eliminated. We learn that we’re better, because we don’t feel them. But there was something about Colton that let me see the truth. Not feeling things isn’t brave, it’s cowardly. And being hurt, when someone betrays you, isn’t weak, it’s normal. Especially because he was right. We had made a connection.
He came at me again and I had to dive and roll on the ground to get clear. I scrambled up, flustered and shaken. It doesn’t matter that you hurt him, a little voice inside me said. There’s nothing real here. Nothing he feels for you can be real. He can never know the real you. If he did, he’d hate you.
