I could see my apartment, or at least a small corner of it, as I forced one foot in front of the other. The wind mocked me. Taunted me. And I suddenly knew how salmon felt when they swam against the current.
I realized I was walking past the Hometown Motel. The one in which Reyes Farrow was staying. Glancing over, I saw rows of run-down blue doors and a dirty white exterior. Even after all this time, I didn’t know what Reyes drove, so the cars parked out front gave me no clue as to which room was his. It was for the best. If I knew which room was his, I’d be tempted to knock on his door and beg for a ride, and I doubted he was attracted to drowned rats.
But my good fortune seemed to get gooder and gooder. The door to one of the rooms on my right opened, streaming light onto the sidewalk in front of me. I looked over as Reyes Farrow stepped into the doorframe. He must have had the heat all the way up, because a warmth from heaven slid over me like a blanket. The door stood twenty feet away, so either that or his heat could penetrate even this torrential weather. Not that I cared at that moment.
Since the light shone from behind Reyes, I couldn’t make out his features. I didn’t need to. The harshness in his voice spoke volumes. “What are you doing?”
I slowed my pace but didn’t stop. It hadn’t been a question of concern but one that demonstrated his complete faith in my ineptitude. What the hell had I ever done to this guy?
“Walking home,” I said, fighting the urge to wrap my arms around myself with every fiber of my being. My wet clothes clung to my skin, leaving little to the imagination, I was sure, the thin material slowly turning to ice. But the heat that now saturated me made me want to cry. I would’ve sold my soul for more.
The light cast a soft glow on the hills and valleys that encased his exposed forearms. Unlike the Russian’s, however, Reyes’s were smooth. Sinuous. Fluid. The shadows that rested in the negative spaces shifted with each movement he made as though a gorgeous painting had been brought to life. The unearthly fog that cascaded over his shoulders like a cape and pooled at his feet billowed around him, and the fire that licked across his skin glowed a soft amber in the low light. I wondered for the thousandth time what he was. I did know one thing for certain: He was not completely human. I also wondered if he knew.
He took a drink from a whiskey glass, keeping his glittering gaze locked on me as though laser guided. It was the one thing on his face I could make out clearly, his dark eyes glistening beneath thick lashes. The light rainbowed off his irises as he regarded me with what I could only assume was derision.
He lowered the glass to his side, the ice clinking – salient word: ice – and hooked a thumb into his jeans pocket. “Where’s your coat?” He wore a white button-down with the sleeves rolled up, only the buttons weren’t buttoned. The shirt hung open. The cold didn’t seem to faze him. It irked.
“Where’s yours?” I countered.
He ignored me. Kept his piercing stare locked on its target, its visage so arresting I stopped. As though he’d ordered me to. As though he’d willed it.
Frustrated, I said with a heavy sigh just as a gust of wind sent a chill shuddering through me, “Getting dry-cleaned.” I tensed my arms, curled my hands into fists, prayed he couldn’t see how cold I was. Or how blue.
“Why?”
I frowned at him. “Why what?”
“Why are you getting your coat cleaned?”
“I’m not entirely sure.”
“Get in here,” he said, releasing his talonlike hold at last. He turned and started inside.
I stiffened. Or I tried to. I was pretty sure I shook visibly now, and it was only partly due to the cold. That boy had no idea what he was asking. If he didn’t hate me so much and he wasn’t an evil supernatural being, I’d be on him like black on Cookie’s toast.
That woman could not make toast.
I let go of my musings when he turned to look at me over the expanse of a powerful shoulder. When he arched a shapely brow. When he engaged his tractor beam and pulled until my feet