“So it is.” Luca dips his head to look down at the towel, bringing his mouth shockingly close to mine in the process.
I feel his breath on my neck, hot and fast. A shiver races through me, but I’m not cold. I’m far from it. My skin is on fire, and an unfamiliar tingle settles low in my gut. He invades my senses. I’m acutely aware of everything, from his woodsy, masculine scent to his big, strong hand enclosed around mine.
Then he lifts his head again, and our gazes lock. Time stops.
I’m drowning in his eyes with no chance of rescue. There is no coming back from this . . . whatever this is that is happening. All I know is that it’s something. Cupid must have shot an arrow in my butt cheek because fireworks are popping off like crazy.
Luca’s gaze finally breaks away from mine, but only to travel across my face and down to my mouth. He pauses there to flick his tongue over his lips.
He’s going to kiss me. I know it, and I’m pretty sure I want it.
Correction. I definitely want it.
My lips part in invitation and I do “the lean” that is the universal go-ahead-and-kiss-me sign. The gap between us melts away. Inches become centimeters. Millimeters. I close my eyes and wait for the big explosion that I know is about to rock my world.
Suddenly, my hands are free. My arms drop to my sides as Luca practically shoves me aside. He paces halfway to the bathroom door before he stops. His back is to me when he inhales deeply.
“You good now?” His voice sounds off. Not smooth like usual.
My stomach clenches. Embarrassment and disappointment take their turns at slicing through me, both equally painful. I don’t dare open my mouth to speak, so I nod. Since he still hasn’t turned to face me, he doesn’t see it.
“Sav?” He finally glances over his shoulder.
“I’m good,” I manage.
His eyes narrow suspiciously. “You sure?”
He starts toward me, and I hold a hand up to stop him. “Don’t. Please.”
The concern in his eyes turns to sadness. Maybe regret. It’s the last thing I want to see after what almost happened between us—or what I thought was going to happen.
How could I have misread the situation so wrongly? It’s clear he had no intention of kissing me—and probably never will. Not after I freaked the guy out by coming on to him seconds after suffering a panic attack.
Stupid hormones. I blame them for my naivety.
“Sav . . .” The softness in his voice when he says my name only twists the knot in my stomach tighter.
“Just . . . give me a minute, okay?” I turn away from him to pull myself together. There are issues to contend with that are far more important than my wounded ego. Like, for instance, what happened here tonight before I made an ass of myself.
It’s all a bit much to wrap my head around—nothing more so than the revelation that Luca actually is a shifter. I don’t want to believe it, but I can’t deny what I saw.
“You were telling me the truth,” I conclude.
“Yes.” He sighs long and hard. “I didn’t want it to happen like this. I’m sorry.”
I turn around to face him. “I just want to . . . understand.”
“We’ll talk about it tomorrow. I’ll answer whatever questions you have then.” Luca picks a feather off the floor, then looks at what is left of my window. “And I’ll help you clean up this mess.”
“Tomorrow?” I gape at him. “Oh, no. No, no, no. I want answers now, and I’m not leaving that window uncovered all night.”
“Leave it, Sav,” he murmurs tiredly. “I don’t have it in me right now. I have about five minutes of consciousness left. I’ll be better by morning.”
I watch curiously as he walks toward my bed. He picks up my worn copy of Little Women and shoots me an “ah-ha” expression.
“It’s not Bronte,” I inform him.
“Close enough.” He places the book on the table beside my phone and the lamp. Then he pulls the bed sheets down and turns the light off.
“What are you doing?”
“Sleeping,” he says simply. “I need rest to heal.”
“Here?” I squeak.
“I’ll never make it back to my place, or the campground,” he tells me. “Besides that, I’m not leaving you here alone. Even wounded, I’m better than a frying pan if those shifters come back.”
I eye the cast iron skillet where it still lies on the floor, covered in feathers and blood. “Those birds? They were shifters?”
“Yes,” he sighs. “We’ll talk about it tomorrow.”
“My car,” I blurt, quickly jumping into action. “Yeah, that’s it. I can drive you—”
“Sav.” He stops me with a look. “I have about three minutes until I won’t be able to keep my eyes open. I’m staying here.”
He pounds the edges of my pillow to fluff it up. My pillow.
“Are you . . .” I trail off, prompting him to look at me. I point to the towel around his waist. “Is there anything under that?”
Exhaustion and pain fill his eyes, but not enough to keep an ornery grin off his lips. “Well, there is . . . something. Do you need to see proof?”
“I don’t mean . . .” I stammer. “You know what I mean.”
“If what you want to ask is if I’m naked under this towel, then yes. I am.” He shrugs. “It’s a shifter thing. You’ll get used to it.”
I cross my arms. “Not likely.”
He groans. “Can I go to sleep now?”
“You really have to sleep here, in my room?”
“I could take the couch,” he offers hesitantly before adding, “but I don’t want to. Not with that window busted out.”
I glance at the gaping hole left behind by the monstrous bird and shiver at the memory.
“Fine,” I relent, “but not in that stupid towel.”
I dart into the bathroom and snatch a navy blue and white towel from my cupboard. I toss it to him. “Use this one.”
He looks at the new towel in his hand before giving me a quizzical look. “I real man isn’t afraid to wear pink. I don’t really care.”
“I do. The pink one belongs to my stepsister. Wear mine instead so she doesn’t flip out about the blood you’re getting all over it.”
The truth is that the sight of Luca in Jill’s towel is doing weird things to my stomach. He may not reciprocate my feelings, but I don’t want to see him wearing something that belongs to another girl—least of all my stepsister.
“Fine.” Luca shrugs.
He doesn’t hesitate. He drops the towel without waiting for me to divert my gaze or turn around. I do turn, but not before I catch a glimpse of more flesh. I’m not exactly sure what I see. It happens too quickly to process.
It seems that Luca enjoys torturing me now.
I grind my teeth at the sound of him chuckling behind me. Buried beneath the light-hearted sound is fatigue. He’s hurting. He needs rest. Apparently, in my room. In my bed.
“You can look now,” he tells me. “Not that I cared if you looked before.”
I spin around. “I care.”
He smooths out the sheets on my bed, sending my stomach into somersaults. He’s a sight to behold, blood and injuries included. Just the view of so much skin, and the muscle moving beneath it, is enough to make me feel lightheaded. It should be a sin to look that good. I’ll never be able to concentrate, let alone sleep, knowing Luca is in my bed like this.