More than long enough for me to get my rampaging heart under control. At least until he reaches out and gently takes hold of one of my million curls.
And just that easily, I forget how to breathe again.
Heat slams through me as he stretches out the curl, warming me up for the first time since I opened the door of Philip’s plane in Healy. It’s confusing and overwhelming and I don’t have a clue what to do about it.
Five minutes ago, this guy was being a total douche to me. And now…now I don’t know anything. Except that I need space. And to sleep. And a chance to just breathe for a few minutes.
With that in mind, I bring my hands up and push at his shoulders in an effort to get him to give me a little room. But it’s like pushing a wall of granite. He doesn’t budge.
At least not until I whisper, “Please.”
He waits a second longer, maybe two or three—until my head is muddled and my hands are shaking—before he finally takes a step back and lets the curl go.
As he does, he sweeps a hand through his dark hair. His longish bangs part just enough to reveal a jagged scar from the center of his left eyebrow to the left corner of his mouth. It’s thin and white, barely noticeable against the paleness of his skin, but it’s there nonetheless—especially if you look at the wicked vee it causes at the end of his dark eyebrow.
It should make him less attractive, should do something—anything—to negate the incredible power of his looks. But somehow the scar only emphasizes the danger, turning him from just another pretty boy with angelic looks into someone a million times more compelling. A fallen angel with a bad-boy vibe for miles…and a million stories to back that vibe up.
Combined with the anguish I just felt inside him, it makes him more…human. More relatable and more devastating, despite the darkness that rolls off him in waves. A scar like this only comes from an unimaginable injury. Hundreds of stitches, multiple operations, months—maybe even years—of recovery. I hate that he suffered like that, wouldn’t wish it on anyone, let alone this boy who frustrates and terrifies and excites me all at the same time.
He knows I noticed the scar—I can see it in the way his eyes narrow. In the way his shoulders stiffen and his hands clench into fists. In the way he ducks his head so that his hair falls over his cheek again.
I hate that, hate that he thinks he has to hide something that he should wear as a badge of honor. It takes a lot of strength to get through something like this, a lot of strength to come out the other side of it, and he should be proud of that strength. Not ashamed of the mark it’s left.
I reach out before I make a conscious decision to do so, cup his scarred cheek in my hand.
His dark eyes blaze, and I think he’s going to shove me away. But in the end, he doesn’t. He just stands there and lets me stroke my thumb back and forth across his cheek—across his scar—for several long moments.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper when I can finally get my voice past the painful lump of sympathy in my throat. “This must have hurt horribly.”
He doesn’t answer. Instead, he closes his eyes, sinks into my palm, takes one long, shuddering breath.
Then he’s pulling back, stepping away, putting real distance between us for the first time since he snuck up behind me, which suddenly feels like a lifetime ago.
“I don’t understand you,” he tells me suddenly, his black-magic voice so quiet that I have to strain to hear him.
“‘There are more things in heaven and hell, Horatio, / Than are dreamt of in your philosophy,’” I answer, deliberately using his earlier misquote.
He shakes his head as if trying to clear it. Takes a deep breath, then blows it out slowly. “If you won’t leave—”
“I can’t leave,” I interject. “I have nowhere else to go. My parents—”
“Are dead. I know.” He smiles grimly. “Fine. If you’re not going to leave, then you need to listen to me very, very carefully.”
“What do you—？”
“Keep your head down. Don’t look too closely at anyone or anything.” He leans forward, his voice dropping to a low rumble as he finishes. “And always, always watch your back.”
4
Shining Armor
Is So Last Century
“Grace!” My uncle Finn’s voice booms down the hallway, and I turn toward him instinctively. I smile and give him a little wave even though there’s a part of me that feels frozen in place after being on the receiving end of what sounds an awful lot like a warning.