“Where are you?”
His words are guttural, harsh. The sound of a man at his breaking point.
My eyes move to the sign at the intersection and I hiccup out the cross street. The words are barely out when he barks again.
“Are you okay?”
“Yes,” I whisper, my voice small.
“Stay there. Don’t move a single fucking inch from that spot.” He’s breathing hard, like he’s running. “I’m coming.”
Chapter Fifteen
Enough with the sex positions. Why can’t magazines
publish an article about reading positions that
don’t get uncomfortable after five minutes?
Phoebe West, while perusing an issue of COSMO.
I don’t know what speeding laws he breaks or how he manages it, but five minutes later a black Viper screams around a corner and slams to a halt in front of me. He’s out of the car and around the hood before I can even gain my feet. His expression is scarier than I’ve ever seen it — taut with tension, dark with fury. It makes his Badass Mercenary look seem downright friendly. His eyes though — they’re the most frightening. Because when he catches sight of me, shaking like a leaf in my little black dress, bruised and battered and bleeding… the unrelenting wrath burning on the surface of his irises shifts to reveal something else.
Fear.
Pure, unadulterated fear.
Nathaniel Knox is afraid.
The realization hits me like a ton of bricks. I always thought the day I saw Nate afraid of something would be the day Satan enjoyed a nice, cold ice cream sundae in Hell. And I certainly never thought it would be because of me.
“I’m fine,” I murmur, a second before he reaches me.
He doesn’t respond. He’s too busy running his hands over my limbs, checking for injuries, scanning to see if the scrapes on my arms need serious medical attention.
“I’m fine,” I repeat, my voice stronger as he crouches to move his hands down my legs, pausing to examine my ravaged knees. “Nate, I said I’m okay.”
He doesn’t respond. I don’t even know if he can hear me, he’s so far gone right now. Which isn’t good — not when we’re standing out on a street corner, exposed and vulnerable.
I take a deep breath and gather my courage. Too weary to talk myself out of it, I lift one shaking hand and thread it through his hair. My fingers are dirty - the nails ripped from falling on concrete, the cuticles torn and bleeding, the skin coated with dust and grass stains. I barely register any of that as my hand twines through his short, dark locks, just as I’ve dreamed of doing for years.
He freezes the instant I touch him.
“I’m fine, Nate,” I whisper again. “I’m fine.”
A sound, almost like a growl, slides from his lips as my hand moves lightly through his hair. To my surprise, it’s soft. Silkier than I’d imagined.
After a moment, he moves. His grip is a little too rough, his touch a little too furious, as his hands slide from my knees around to the back of my thighs, pulling me into him until there’s no space between us. There’s desperation in his touch, like he can’t quite believe I’m in his arms. His fingers dig harshly into my skin, sending tiny aches flaring through me.
I don’t mind. I’m not even embarrassed about my stained clothes or dirty body. Right now, I get the sense he needs to touch me. To reassure himself that I’m real.
His face hits my stomach, his hands find the small of my back, and then… he’s hugging me.
Nathaniel Knox is on his knees on a littered street corner, hugging me like he thinks I might disappear. Like the slightest loosening of his hold will let me vanish into thin air.
“Nate,” I whisper, both my hands in his hair, now. His face presses tighter against the fabric of my torn dress, forehead digging into the soft flesh just below my ribcage.
This moment — this man — does something to me. Sends a pang through my heart, a knife of longing through my soul.