Page 40 of Between Passion and Revenge: Part One

“Since we’ve got more stuff, let’s take the elevator down,” Storm says, and I follow him without even questioning how two additional books necessitate taking the elevator over the stairs we used when we arrived.

But to be completely honest? I don’t actually care what his reasoning is.

I’m in way too damn deep.

As the elevator doors close and we begin our descent, I glance over at him, wondering if this version of Storm will last…and if I can trust everything he said before we started working.

Because who is he if he isn’t what the world has shown him as?

I’m lost in my thoughts when a loudclunkresonates through the small space, and the floor beneath us jolts.

“What the fuck!” Storm barks as we’re plunged into sudden darkness. My heartbeat is a bass drum in my chest, and our breaths are loud in the space.

“Storm?” I call out, reaching in front of me blindly. My palm strikes solid flesh, and I grip the fabric of what I’m assuming is his shirt. It almost feels like a reflex when his arms band around my back, pulling me into his chest.

An edge of anxiety starts to crop up, but my senses return just as the emergency lights click on, providing a glow in the small car.

“Okay,” I say, orienting myself. The first thing I recognize is the button on his polo.

The next thing I sense is his smell—the dark, woody scent from his undoubtedly expensive cologne is the strongest here, with my face so close to his neck.

I feel his heart hammering beneath my clenched fist, and his hands at the small of my back have the finest tremor.

A close look at his face confirms my suspicions—his wide-eyed stare pairs with a sickly pallor that is visible despite the low lighting.

“Storm?” I keep my voice low, loosening my fingers to place my palm right over his heart. “Are you okay?”

I realize as soon as the words are out of my mouth that of course, he’s not okay. That’s clear. So I want to side-eye him hard at his act when he shakes his head and tries to shrug. Heopens his mouth as if he wants to say something, but nothing comes out.

“Okay,” I reply. “I’m going to hit the emergency button and see if I can get through to an operator.”

His hands drop from my back, and I move slowly and deliberately, trying not to amp him up any more.

But when I press the signal, the intercom crackles faintly, then goes dead.

“Well, shit,” I mutter. I go quiet as I try to settle on what to do next when a faint murmur comes from behind me.

“Water,” Storm says. I turn back to him, noting he looks even worse in the dimness. “Do you have?—”

I hear him swallow.

“Do you have any water?” Before he finishes the sentence, I grab my tote and fish out the Nalgene bottle tucked in the inside pocket. I hand it to him, and the tremor in his hand makes it difficult for him to uncap it.

“Here, let me.” I put my hand on his to help him unscrew the top, and I keep my palm close by as he brings the bottle to his lips. I’m grateful it’s a thirty-two-ounce bottle and it’s full of fresh water. He takes several big gulps before stopping himself and bringing the bottle to his chest.

“Th-thanks,” he says, dropping his voice low.

He doesn’t say anything further, and I don’t fill the silence. Instead, I head to the panel once more and press the button.

More static.

Sighing, I slide down the wall near the controls.

It’s not my place to get all up in his business. And I especially shouldn’t be feeling him up when he’s clearly having an anxiety attack.

Just do what you need to get out of here and move on.

The quiet isn’t uncomfortable exactly—more like suspended, hovering in the air between us. When he moves, the friction ofhis clothes rubbing together is loud in the confined space. He slides down the wall opposite me. It’s close enough quarters that our knees are side by side as we sit; my feet almost touch the wall near his hip.

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