Page 25 of Venomous Throne

I swallowed my fifth or sixth bite. “Are you telling me that you’ve never had cheesecake before?”

Because that was exactly how it seemed.

“No. I haven’t.”

“Huh,” I muttered. What else was I supposed to say to something so odd? It wasn’t for everyone. Some people called it sour or hated the texture. But he’d never tried it?

“I’m going to ask again, so please don’t bite my head off,” I said, changing the subject. “How is your arm?”

Something flickered through his eyes. Remorse maybe. “It’s healing well.”

“Good.”

We ate in silence. It wasn’t an empty or lonely thing. There were strange feelings, a tangible pull in the air, and a familiarity that filled the space.

When he was done, and I’d licked my spoon clean, it was time to make a decision.

“Thank you for stopping by, but I’m going to have to ask you to leave now.”

Jaxon might be a tough guy with the body of a bull, but he was a civilian. He couldn’t be involved in my world.

“I understand.” He took his dishes to the sink, quickly washing them and setting them to dry on the side.

“Wait,” I called as he stepped to the door.

He paused, turning slightly.

I hurried up to him. I couldn’t help it. I placed my fingers over his arm.

“Promise me that you’ll see a doctor if this thing gets infected. Don’t chance it, okay?”

Jaxon captured my wrist. It wasn’t a threatening gesture. His fingers slid over my pulse, no doubt feeling how wildly it beat.

His thumb continued to stroke back and forth as he watched me. “I’m glad I’m leaving town,” he murmured. “I can’t be your hero.”

Air caught in my throat.

I shouldn’t feel conflicted at seeing him go. Hell, I was sending him back into the night!

But his words rocked me. He wouldn’t be here, wouldn’t be around for a chance run-in at the store or the park.

Jaxon leaned forward.

His face hovered inches from mine, so close I could feel the warmth of his breath against my lips. My gaze dropped to his mouth, hard and uncompromising like the rest of him, yet somehow inviting. The kitchen seemed to shrink around us, the air growing thick and heavy.

“Isabella,” he whispered, my name a rough prayer on his tongue.

My fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt, not pushing him away but not pulling him closer either. I was suspended in indecision, knowing I should step back but unable to move. His scent enveloped me—something woodsy with hints of metal and gunpowder that shouldn’t have been appealing but made my head swim nonetheless.

His free hand came up to brush a strand of hair from my face, the calloused pad of his thumb grazing my cheekbone with unexpected gentleness. The contrast between his imposing, rough exterior and the thing hidden behind was striking.

“It was the highlight of my life to meet you.”

After dropping that bomb, he straightened. Without another word, he left, taking all the oxygen from the room.

My stupid,stupidheart quaked.

“It’s for the best,” I promised myself.