Page 115 of Power Shift

“Inside,” she repeats when I don’t move.

It’s a reminder of why I’m here.

There’s a crack in my resolve as I lower her to her feet, hating every second that it takes to peel her off me. Especially when she tightens her grip on my shoulders and shakes her head, eyes half-closed and dazed.

“Nobody is going inside until I make sure it’s safe,” I soothe her. Or try to. Shit, my voice is cracking. “I need you to be safe.”

She sighs, head rolling back along the wall behind her. “Hurry, Superman.”

“Funny,” I deadpan.

“Mm, not funny enough to make you laugh.”

I leave her where she is and use the toe of my sneaker to push the door the rest of the way open. It already being cracked and unlocked for anyone to help themselves to her place doesn’t sit well with me. It may piss me off more than her living in his apartment building in the first place.

Before I enter, I look at her over my shoulder. Her eyes are still on me, simmering with a need I want to sate.

“Do you want me to laugh for you, Briar?”

She shrugs, trying to play it off. “I don’t think you’ve even smiled at me before.”

Regret is an emotion I’ve grown familiar with when it comes to Briar. It still hasn’t gotten any easier to swallow.

“I’m ticklish,” I blurt out.

Her brows fly up. “What?”

“I’m ticklish. Everywhere. My armpits, thighs, feet.”

“Are you— Do you want me to tickle you? Is this an invitation?”

It might not be the full thing, but the noise that escapes me is as close as I’ve gotten in a long time to truly laughing. At least this time, I don’t try and stifle it. The crook of my lips pulls at my cheeks, using weakened muscles.

Briar’s answering grin is everything I needed to see.

“Give me a minute to clear the apartment, and then you can try and give it a shot,” I say.

“I’m pretty sure the place is empty.”

“I’m not risking anyone but me smelling you like that.”

She glances down her body, cheeks pink. “Like what?”

“Like you meant what you said back there. That you want me.”

“I’ll prove it to you,” she dares.

I squeeze my eyes shut and fight back the visceral reaction that nips at me. “Don’t move.”

“You got it, Superman.”

The nickname doesn’t bother me. It might be the best one I’ve ever had, if only because she gave it to me.

Leaving her alone is hard, but I make my inspection of her place as quick as possible. It’s a disaster, personal belongings destroyed and walls punched. My gut screams at me that this wasn’t a simple robbery. The shredded curtains, slashed couch cushions, and the spray paint on the bed make this feel personal. Even her nest, or what’s left of it in the corner of her bedroom, has been upturned, and I’m hoping she didn’t see that when she first got here.

An open desk drawer in her bedroom calls my attention, and I find folders belonging to Harbour of Hope patients inside of it, a few papers scattered atop the dresser. The name on the top folder makes me curse.

Leaving them there, I join her again, a new tension in my shoulders alongside a gnawing sensation that I’ve been kept out of the loop about something.

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