Page 48 of Desperate People

So I turn away. Head for the dresser like a coward.

She doesn’t stop me.

But when I glance back—just once—I catch her watching me, lip still caught between her teeth, eyes a darker shade of blue than they were a moment ago.

In that look, I see it.

She wants me too.

And I don’t think I’m strong enough to deny us both.

Chapter Eight-Lucy

I watch him from the edge of the bed as he walks to the dresser.

His broad shoulders are tense.

His movements are too controlled.

Like if he lets himself slip for even a second, he might come undone.

Balor pulls open a drawer and grabs a white undershirt, soft and worn, the kind of thing I imagine he sleeps in—or used to, before I turned his night upside down.

I stand and walk toward him, slowly, carefully, like I’m approaching a live wire.

He doesn’t move as I reach for the shirt in his hands, our fingers brushing. Electricity zings between us, sharp and undeniable.

His eyes meet mine, stormy and at odds with each other, one so verdant and the other glittering like the night sky—breathtaking.

But he doesn’t speak.

I clutch the shirt to my chest and take a breath.

“There’s a hidden zipper under my arm,” I murmur, my voice softer than I mean for it to be. “Can you?”

Balor blinks. He barely nods.

Then he steps into my space.

His fingers find the zipper with a precision that makes me shiver. Slow, sure, dragging it down until the dress loosens around my torso.

I hold it in place with one hand and turn to face him.

He goes still. Completely, utterly still.

My breath hitches in my throat. My heart is beating a million times per minute.

And then I let it go.

The dress slips off me like a secret, pooling at my feet in a whisper of silk.

And just like that, I’m exposed.

Standing in the center of his room, under his gaze, like some kind of offering.

My skin prickles. Not from cold—but from awareness. From him.

Balor Cruz doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. He just watches me.