Page 65

“Never mind,” I muttered, forcing my eyes to the elevator’s floor indicator in hopes it would land on Four as soon as possible. Instead, it spent about an hour and a half on the second floor before slowly moving to the third.

“Oh. You mean Rowan?”

Cold dread washed over me at the sultry sound of her name on his tongue, but I was able to keep my response to a minimal sound of disinterest.

He chuckled softly. “Why do you care?”

“I don’t,” I said quickly. “Like, at all.”

He bit his lip again, and I wondered if the heat from my face was going to make both of us start sweating soon in this tiny metal box.

Vaughn moved up close beside me until our arms were pressed together, and the rest of the elevator space was vastly empty. Then he stared at the floor display with me. It still showed the third floor for a beat before blinking off as we began to move again.

“Are you disappointed I didn’t bring her back to the room?” he asked in a low voice that crawled right under my skin and burrowed there.

I shook my head, keeping my eyes locked on the display.

“Then why are you angry right now?”

My back teeth ground together. “’M not.”

Just as he turned to press me into the elevator wall, the bell finally dinged. Fourth floor. Fucking finally.

I shoved past him, out of the sweltering elevator, taking long strides toward our room while also trying to inhale non-woodsy oxygen to make up for the time spent not breathing.

But as soon as I got the door to our room open, his scent hit me again in waves that made my dick perk up.

“Take off your clothes.”

My whole body shuddered, but I refused to look at him. “Not gonna do that.”

His low chuckle was already under my skin, and now it filled the room around me. “Baby, we both know you’re going to do it, so you might as well stop arguing and get on with it.”

I closed my eyes and sucked in a jagged breath.

I wanted him so badly. Wanted his hands on me, his lips on me, his mouth forming words to tell me what to do.

I wanted him not to be with her. I wanted him to be with me.

“I can’t want this,” I admitted under my breath.

“Not the same thing as not wanting it,” he pointed out, not moving closer or touching me.

I wanted him to touch me so fucking badly, my hands shook with it.

My chest expanded rapidly, though I didn’t seem to get enough air with each breath. I kept my eyes closed and concentrated on slowing down my breathing while the angel and devil on my shoulders argued about Elliot Vaughn.

“Should I call Rowan back?” he asked softly after a few seconds of tense silence.

I could tell he didn’t mean it. It was his way of asking what was going on with me.

I shook my head. I couldn’t say it. Couldn’t.

“Why not?” His voice was so smooth, so sweet. Like he really gave a shit about what I wanted.

Why not? Why not. Words tumbled through my head, fighting for purchase. How I was so full of everyone else’s expectations of me, I didn’t have room for any myself. How I sometimes felt like an actual puppet in someone’s sick show. How sometimes on the field, when I needed something to keep my brain from spinning out of control, I traced the hidden ink on my hip to remind myself that chains could be broken.

How wanting him and acting on it was the first time I’d ever felt myself do it. How I wondered if the entire fucking purpose of thorns was to make yourself feel something, even if it made you bleed, too.