Page 38 of River & Rue

Swallowing the last dying gasps of my ego, I lift my head.

“That’s g-good⁠—”

My throat closes, crushing my voice to a wheeze. Probably for the best since I can’t remember what I was about to say.

He clearly showered elsewhere; the only mud to be seen is on the sneakers he’s holding by the laces. There’s a reusable tote in his other hand and flimsy spa slippers on his feet that don’t look nearly as ridiculous as they should. He’s shirtless, wearing only a pair of too-short, gauzy white pants. They sit obscenely low on his hips, the fabric virtually see-through, but I’m too stunned to register his obvious lack of underwear or the visible outline of his not remotely small dick.

Because his hair is down.

My longtime theory, that River never wears his hair down because it looks dumb, floats away on the same breeze that teases his drying dark waves. No product. No styling. Just effortless perfection framing his face and tumbling past his collarbones.

I have no idea what expression I’m wearing—hopefully one in the realm of abhorrence—but it makes River frown and look down.

He curses, yanking the tote bag in front of his crotch, then offers me a wincing smile. “Sorry.”

I don’t correct the assumption, mainly because I’m having trouble breathing after his smile gave me a glimpse of his elongated canines.

Between the fangs, hair, and his aureate eyes, he embodies every vampire fantasy I’ve ever had. Not the sparkly kind of vampire, either, despite the sunlight currently playing favorites with his tan skin. The darkly possessive, feral kind that bites first and apologizes later.

I’m clearly unwell.

Maybe I have heatstroke.

Can you get heatstroke when the temperature is in the seventies?

River clears his throat, drawing my unfocused gaze from his mouth to his eyes. His are averted, his cheeks ruddy.

Is he… holy shit, is he blushing?

His throat works. “Okay, then. Good talk. I’m going to lie down on some heat. Feel free to shower.”

As he passes me, he plucks the flower crown from my limp hands. I don’t protest, too busy trying to redirect my lurid imagination to something, anything else.

By the time I’m successful, he’s almost at his door.

“River, wait!”

I hurry up the steps and find him with a hand on his doorknob. His shoes and bag sit discarded by his feet, the flower crown dangling from his wrist.

He arches a brow. “I’m not giving my crown back.”

I grin, unreasonably pleased. “I just had a question. Consider an answer payment for the unparalleled work of floral art you’re holding.”

His lips twitch even as his eyes turn wary. “What’s the question?”

On some level, I know this is a bad idea. My curiosity has a well-established habit of overpowering my common sense. But the words tumble out anyway.

“Why are you here, at PAC? Why didn’t you defend yourself last night? Why does it seem like you’re trying to make everyone hate you?”

The change is immediate. All trace of emotion drains from his face, his eyes dulling to fossilized amber. Left behind is a mask both chilling and familiar, and I cross my arms over the sudden sting in my chest.

“That was three questions,” he says flatly.

“Just the last one then.” My tone isn’t dissimilar from the one I use to soothe animals. Gentle and genuine, it works on humans too.

But not River.

His lips thin, his jawline sharpening and flexing. If I were closer, I’d likely hear the grind of his teeth. Then the glimpse of emotion disappears, his mask sliding back into place.