Page 14 of Possessed By the Mountain Man
I stare at the flames in the fireplace. “You’re not anger.”
Silence. Then her voice, smaller now. Curious. “Then what am I?”
I roll onto my back, drag a forearm over my eyes, and breathe. If I say the wrong thing, she’ll run harder. If I say the right thing, she might burn me down.
“Noise,” I say finally. “Bright. Unignorable.”
She makes a soft sound.
It isn’t a laugh. It isn’t a sigh.
It’s interest.
And interest is dangerous.
I turn my head to her. That messy hair spills over the pillow. Her mouth is stained in red again—smudged now. Ruinable.
She licks her lower lip and says, quiet but deadly, “I thought you hated noise.”
“I do,” I say. “I just hate the wrong kind.”
Her breathing falters.
“What kind am I?”
Mine, I almost say.
Instead: “The kind you can’t get rid of.”
Her gaze widens. Something hot and electric passes between us. She doesn’t look away. Neither do I.
She whispers, “And what if noise stays?”
I lean in an inch. Maybe two. Close enough to see the flecks of gold in her eyes.
“Then I’ll handle it,” I promise.
“How?”
“Any way I fucking want.”
She swallows. Her hand brushes mine under the covers by accident. I catch it.
She gasps—just a little.
I lace our fingers together.
She lets me.
Minutes pass. Then hours. We stay like that. Neither of us sleeps. Neither of us speaks.
She feels too good next to me. Too right. Like I’ve been walking with a bullet in my lung for years and now—suddenly—I can breathe. And that terrifies me more than a thousand miles of combat.
I don’t do comfort. I don’t do vulnerability. I don’t do this.
I grip her hand tighter.
She squeezes back.
