Page 51 of Shattered Ice
Her jaw twitches. She glances at the empty table. “You didn’t even buy coffee.”
“I didn’t come for the caffeine.” My eyes drop to her mouth, and I see the exact moment she remembers the taste of me on her lips. She exhales, a sharp, frustrated sound.
“Then what do you want?”
My gaze drags over her, slow and deliberate, from the frantic pulse at her throat to the spot where her collarbone disappears under her shirt. I want to touch that spot. I want to tilt her chin back and make her admit she feels this sick, obsessive pull, too. I meet her eyes. “What do you think I want?”
For one breath, she falters. Her fingers curl tighter. Her chest rises and falls too quickly. Then she locks it down.Resets. Always resetting.
“I think you want control,” she says flatly. “And you’re pissed because I won’t just hand it over.”
I smile, a lazy, lethal curve of my lips. “I think you liked it when I took it.”
Her lips part. Just for a second. A flicker of memory—of the kiss, of being pressed against the wall, of her yielding—crosses her face before she banishes it.
“You can’t just show up here and lurk like some ice-veined phantom.”
“Didn’t expect anything,” I say. “Just wanted to watch you work.”
“Bullshit.”
I lean forward, elbows on the table, my voice a low, intimate thread meant only for her. “Then stop giving me something worth watching.”
Her breath catches. A hitch. A victory.
I hold still, letting the moment stretch until the noise of the café fades and there’s nothing left but the raw electricity snapping between us.
“You’re not romantic, Adrian.” The words are an accusation.
“No?”
“No. You’re a storm pretending to be a person.”
I smirk. She sees the destruction and isn’t running. “And yet,” I say, my voice a low murmur, “you keep standing in the rain.”
She huffs. “We’re not doing this here.”
“Good,” I murmur. A promise. “We’ll do it later.”
She pushes off the table, her spine too stiff. She walks away without another word, but her shoulders are tight, her breath unsteady. She doesn’t look back until she thinks I’m not watching. Only once. But it’s enough. A crack in her armor. I plan to tear it wide open.
By the time her shift ends, I’m waiting outside in the cold. She doesn’t flinch when I fall into step beside her. I reach out and take her bookbag. The strap is still warm from her shoulder. The weight of it feels right, proprietary.
“Yes or no?” I ask.
She nods once, not breaking stride. “Yes. For one block.”
Her body tenses as I walk beside her, a wary flicker in her eyes as she glances up at me.This is different—too soft, too intimate.I can see the hesitation in her posture, the way her fingers curl around her strap. She doesn’t pull away, but I feel the unspoken questions hanging in the air.Is this a trap? What’s the catch?Her breath fogs between us, short and sharp. Her fingers are tucked deep into her sleeves, as if holding herself back from doing something reckless.
The silence between us isn’t empty. It crackles, alive with everything we didn’t say in the café, everything we’ve swallowed since the kiss. When a group of guys barrels past, I reach out on instinct, my hand finding the small of her back, my palm flat against her spine to shield her with my body.
“Left,” I say, guiding her with two fingers. “Less traffic.”
She goes still, every muscle locking at once, but she doesn’t pull away. Her breath stutters. I feel the jolt of her reaction through my hand, a silent, unwilling confession. A surge of dark, possessive satisfaction rolls through me.Mine to touch. Mine to protect.I let my hand drop, though my palm still burns.
“Library,” I say finally, my voice low, rough around the edges. “You owe me a session.”
Her head turns, her eyes stormy and sharp. “You think I owe you?”
