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His hands drop. I want to tell him to touch me to keep me grounded. I hate this feeling of drowning.
“What difference would it make?”
To be honest, I don’t know. But I haven’t run for my life so I guess I have my response.
“Are you leaving?” My voice breaks, suddenly terrified.
“What if I was? Would you worry?”
He smirks. I shove him away. “This is serious. You not giving a damn proves to me you’re not only demented but careless. I got my answer. It wouldn’t make a fucking difference.”
His jaw tics.
I can’t tolerate him right now.
I can’t get used to him, only for him to be like this.
I can’t become one of the other women, living in permanent fear while they love them every day like it’s the last.
Rushing upstairs, I change into leggings and a long hoodie, pulling the hood over my head.
I am safe. Nothing can touch me.
***
Downstairs, at the dining table, his eyes follow me until I sit down.
“Take that monstrosity off.”
Instead, I take a few sips of soup while his knuckles whiten around the spoon.
“I want to go home.” I sound like a petulant child, but I can’t be here any longer. This is going nowhere. It’s one step forward, ten steps back.
“You’re not going anywhere.”
“You’re not my keeper.”
“Really? Take a fucking look around.”
He is at my side in a flurry of movement, dragging me up and setting me on the table. My breath whooshes out of me. He positions himself between my legs and my eyes focus on the knife in his hand, glistening under the chandelier. He wields it with a precision that captivates all my attention.
“Never hide from me again.”
Before I can even blink, he rips my hoodie into two perfect halves using the knife. My mouth parts on a gasp, my pulse quivers. I should be terrified, but I’m not. Something must be wrong with me; I have never felt this alive. Cameron throws it aside, and the knife lands on the floor with a clang. His chest heaves up and down as he cages me in with his palms against the table. There’s no place I feel safer than between his arms.
“Talk to me.”
“I’m scared.”
“Of me?”
“You don’t let me in and I don’t know if I should want that.”
I palm his cheeks, and he sighs when the leather of my gloves touches his face. This is not about undressing me or unraveling him. It’s about connecting—needing to feel him.
Taking a fortifying breath, I give another part of myself, not caring that I will receive nothing in return. How quickly he has become someone I’d give my all to.
I peel off my gloves and cradle his face, touching his sculpted jaw, those high cheekbones, and those pouty lips. His gaze, brimming with warmth and delight, melts me. My chest opens up as he vaults right into the center of my heart.
