Page 24 of Brass
The threat hangs between us, ambiguous yet clear.
“Would you hurt me?” I ask, needing to know where the boundaries lie.
Something flickers in his eyes—surprise, perhaps even hurt. “No. Never. But I might restrain you. And I definitely will stop protecting you if you refuse to be protected.”
His face is so close now that I can see the faint stubble darkening his jaw, the tiny lines at the corners of his eyes, the almost imperceptible chip in his front tooth. Details that humanize him. Make him more than the machine-like protector who fought off four men without breaking a sweat.
“I don’t like being controlled,” I admit, voice barely audible.
“And I don’t like wasting my time with people determined to get themselves killed.” His expression softens fractionally. “This isn’t about control, Celeste. It’s about survival.”
My name on his lips does something to me. Something I’m not prepared for.
“I need to know you understand what’s happening here.” His eyes search mine. “Those men in the subway aren’t typical hitmen. They’re ex-military or intelligence personnel, highly trained and well-funded. They have resources, connections, and a singular objective: to eliminate you and whatever you’re carrying.”
A chill slides down my spine despite the heat radiating from his body.
“The only reason you’re alive right now is that I happened to be on that platform. The only reason you’ll stay alive is if you stop fighting me and start working with me.”
The certainty in his voice is both comforting and terrifying. Because he’s right. I’ve been running on adrenaline and denial, refusing to process the reality of my situation fully.
“Do you understand?” he presses.
I nod, unable to form words past the tightness in my throat.
“Say it.” His voice is gentle now, but no less commanding. “I need to hear you say it.”
“I understand.” The admission costs me something—pride, perhaps. Or the illusion of self-reliance I’ve clung to for so long.
Something shifts in his expression—approval, relief. His posture changes, but instead of moving away, he leans in closer.
Time slows to a crawl.
His eyes lock with mine, intensity radiating from that ice-blue gaze. For a heartbeat, we breathe the same air, neither advancing nor retreating. I’m pinned not by his hands but by his eyes and the weight of his focus.
Then his gaze drops to my lips. Lingers there. Returns to my eyes with a question I’m not ready to answer. His pupils dilate slightly, black consuming blue.
He moves closer—imperceptible to anyone watching, seismic to me, feeling it. The distance between us shrinks from inches to nothing. The heat of him envelops me, his scent—sweat and rain and something distinctly male—fills my lungs with each shallow breath.
Again, his eyes drop to my mouth. My lips tingle with awareness, with anticipation. His jaw tightens, a small muscle jumping beneath the stubbled skin. Is he fighting the same pull I am? This gravitational force between us that defies logic, defies the circumstances that brought us here?
I find myself leaning forward, the barest tilt of my head. An invitation I hadn’t consciously decided to extend.
He’s going to kiss me. The realization floods me with contradictory emotions—desire, anxiety, anticipation, fear. I should stop this. Should turn away. Should remember who he is, who I am, and why we’re here.
I do none of those things.
Instead, I watch as he makes his decision. His eyes darken further. He dips his head, bringing our faces close enough that our noses nearly touch. My eyelids flutter closed, surrendering to whatever this madness is.
But at the last moment, he shifts. The kiss I’ve braced for doesn’t land on my lips. Instead, he turns his head slightly, his mouth moving to the side. His lips brush the shell of my ear instead, his stubble grazing the sensitive skin of my cheek. His breath is warm, intimate.
“Good girl,” he whispers, the words vibrating through me.
A lightning strike of sensation courses down my spine, pooling low in my belly. Heat floods my face, my neck, places I refuse to acknowledge. Two simple words shouldn’t affect methis way—patronizing, condescending words that should offend every feminist principle I hold.
Instead, they light me up from the inside. A shameful warmth spreads through my chest, a dangerous pleasure at earning his approval that radiates outward until my fingertips tingle with it.
What is wrong with me?
