Road To Fire (Broken Crown Trilogy #1) - Maria Luis Page 0,82
escaped my notice that Guy left the property sometime yesterday but Saxon has stayed. Or rather, he’s stayed away but remained in the house, like a ghost whom I hear stalking the halls at night though he never appears once the sun graces the horizon.
Against my better judgment, I soak up his brawny frame like I haven’t set eyes on him in years.
His dark hair is damp, slightly tangled, like he recently showered and forgot to comb through the strands. The stubble on his face has thickened, signaling the start of a full beard. He’s wearing a fitted short-sleeved shirt paired with soft, gray joggers that hug his arse when he hitches the material at the thighs and claims a seat on the coffee table.
Legs spread. Hands firm on his knees. Bare feet.
My skin warms, and it takes every ounce of strength to find the words to quip, “I couldn’t be sure, what with you avoiding the sun and all. Peter and I, we’ve been taking bets on whether you double as a vampire.”
“When I said that I bite, that’s not what I meant.”
“What? Fresh blood doesn’t do it for you?” I tease, hungering for the elusive quirk of his lips that he gifts me so sparingly.
I won’t dare admit it out loud but I’ve missed him.
This.
The aloofness that he wears like a second skin, which always makes me desperate to tear it to shreds and watch the man with a heart beat to the surface. The man who vowed he would let no harm come to me. The same man who stripped off his shirt, knowing that his scars reveal the harsh realities of his life, and knelt before me anyway.
Humbled. Vulnerable. Real.
Subdued humor flickers in his pale eyes before he lifts a hand, scrubbing it over his mouth. To hide a smile, perhaps—at least, that’s what I tell myself. “I think I spill enough blood without doing it for sport, too,” he rumbles.
“Sport, survival. Two sides of the same coin. Suppose it depends on your outlook.”
He tilts his head toward the blank telly. “And what do you say my outlook should be on that?”
He doesn’t need to elaborate. My gut clenches with the memory of what happened at The Octagon, and my thinly veiled good mood dissipates, as if I’ve snapped my fingers and demanded its destruction.
Three days of constant worry. Two sleepless nights of terrible dreams. Seventy-two hours to regret every decision that I’ve made in the last two months that has led me to this exact moment.
Sighing, I drop my head against the cushions. “You’re putting yourself at risk every moment that you stay here with us. That’s what I think. You should have left with your brother. Gotten out of the City.”
Saxon doesn’t move though his brows draw together. “I promised that I wouldn’t let anything happen to you.”
I hate that my stupid heart melts at his words.
“Yes, you did. But that was before we realized the entire city would be hunting you down.” Rising from the couch, I start for the windows that overlook quaint Lyme Street. The curtains are drawn, allowing only a sliver of sunlight to shine through. Hooking a finger around the fabric, I peel it aside. There are no police cruisers driving past. No signs of any neighbors either. Quiet. It’s all too quiet. Worry slicks through my veins. “How long until they find us here? Find you?”
“They won’t.”
I let the curtain fall back into place. Turn to Saxon, who’s angled his body so he can watch me. “You say that like you’ve done this before.”
Beneath the short sleeves, his biceps bulge as he drops his elbows to his knees and clasps his hands together. “I know what I’m doing.” Green eyes pin me in place, and in them I see nothing but masculine confidence. “Believe me.”
“You’re seriously not concerned. Not even a little?”
“I’ve defeated worse odds.”
I’d laugh at his arrogance if I weren’t so tempted to wring his neck. Men. Seriously. Aside from orgasms, what good do they bring to the table? Nothing but headaches and stress and all the blasted anxiety in the world.
“There are too many unknown variables for me to feel comfortable. Plus, with Peter and Josie—” Breaking off, I plunk down on the abandoned sofa, the cushion still warm from my bum. Truth be told, I’m surprised there’s not a permanent dent shaped like my arse. I haven’t moved in days. “We can’t stay here, not forever.”