"Way to choose violence, Milana," he murmured. He sounded jocular, almost friendly. Like he teased people every day and he could do it without being a dickhead. "Will you be joining us on Sunday morning? It would be good of you to come along, don't you think? Or should I call you to let you know we've arrived at the location? At seven? On Sunday morning?"
"I trust you to handle this on your own, Sebastian."
She crossed to the door, holding it open in a clear signal for us to get the fuck out.
Sebastian was closest and exited without further discussion. He was halfway down the hall and moving at a pace that said he had places to be. The door to the stairwell banged behind him and I had to fly down the first set of stairs to catch up.
"Would you just slow down for a second?" My voice echoed off the cinderblock walls.
I reached for his elbow as he made the turn at the landing. Instead of stopping, he backed me against the wall, his fingers splayed over my hip, his thumb an inch or two away from locations deemed not safe for work.
He stared at me, his eyes dark and his scowl forcing his lips into a pout that was a dash too aggressive to be attractive and digging rivers and tributaries into his brow.
"Something you need, Shap?"
That thumb drew circles over my scrubs, around and around as we stared at each other. I'd followed him for a reason but I couldn't find it now. I couldn't find anything but the firm press of his fingers and the way my skin just melted in response. That was it—I melted. I was hot and soft and everything inside me felt pliable, like he could shape me any way he wanted and nothing about it could ever be wrong.
"Speak words, screech owl," he rumbled.
All I could come up with was a jerky shake of my head. Sebastian watched me through those ridiculous lashes, his scowl softening in microscopic increments as he studied me.
"Shap," he warned, bringing his other hand to the back of my neck. He stroked his fingers along my windpipe.
I sucked in a breath, ready to tell him this was the worst place to strangle me and also, what happened back there with the raisins and why was a single thumb destroying my ability to function in the most basic sense?
I would've said this. I really would have, but a snarl sounded in his throat and something was decided, something irrevocable, because he brushed his lips over mine and it was like unplugging a radio. The noise stopped, leaving only his irritable, hungry growls and our mingled breaths and the clomp of my heart.
I locked my arms around his neck and climbed him like a flood was about to carry me away. There was no way of knowing whether that was my best or worst moment to date. It could've gone either way but now I knew how that pout tasted.
That counted for something, even if this was a slow-falling tragedy in action. He kissed his way along my jaw and down my throat to tuck a finger under the neck of my t-shirt. "This shirt," he growled, "is fucking perfect."
I had to force my eyes open and blink down at my chest. I didn't know which shirt I was wearing any more than I knew what the hell was happening between us or why I found it necessary to wrap my legs around his trim waist.
"'Heal with cold steel,'" he read, tracing a finger over the pair of scalpels crossed under a skull. "Love it." He dropped a kiss to my sternal notch. "Where do you get these shirts?"
As if there was any confusion about which shirts he was referring to, he ran a hand over my breasts, bunching the cotton in his fist as he kissed me again.
"Why do you want to know?"
"So I can stop thinking about it."
He sighed against my lips though I knew immediately it wasn't one of his usual sighs of aggravation. No, this sigh was laced with misery, with pain.
I was a second away from attending to all that misery before a door slammed a few flights above. We jolted apart as if we'd been stunned, scattering to opposite corners of the landing. I swallowed up a heavy blink of Sebastian adjusting himself before I whirled around to face the wall.
I managed two shuddering gasps before his hands landed on my shoulders. "I'm sorry," he said softly.
"For what?" I tried to straighten my shirt but my hands didn't work anymore.
He breathed a sigh as shaky as I felt. "Fuck if I know but—"
"Just stop. Okay? That's what I want. I want this to stop and"—I rubbed my temples against the sudden onslaught of competing thoughts—"this isn't happening. It's not."
His hands fell from my shoulders. The second he was gone, I wanted him back. "Message received."
I heard him back up and then jog down to the next level. His hands connected with the door, the hinges squealing. I pressed my fingertips to my lips. My body was shaking from the inside out. I hadn't felt this torn and out of control in a decade. Maybe longer. I didn't know how to fix it but I knew I had to.
We couldn't keep doing this.
Chapter 11
Sebastian
Fuck my life.
No, seriously, just fuck my whole life.
I couldn't go another round with Sara. Not tonight, not this weekend, not ever. I was not capable of managing all the things she stirred up inside me while also being a semifunctional adult. I could do Sara or I could do life, but definitely not both.
Most of the time, I wanted to wrap my hands around her throat. That I wanted to do this while fucking her didn't improve the situation.
Since I couldn't cope with another hallway encounter right now, I ducked out of the hospital early and avoided the apartment building altogether. After a subway ride into Cambridge and a short walk from the station, I was standing on Nick's doorstep.
I'd texted him on the way so this wasn't a completely unannounced demand for food and shelter but I accepted his barely tolerant stare with a shrug.
"If you don't want people coming over, you shouldn't be so welcoming," I said.
He shut the door behind me, saying, "Somehow I doubt that's the issue."
I followed him into the kitchen where his wife Erin was seated at the long farmhouse table with her laptop and a pile of folders. She patted the empty spot beside her. "Who's bothering you today, Sebastian?"
I dropped down into the chair and rested my head on my upturned palm. "Everyone."
It was the only answer I had available. I couldn't tell her about my very blonde, very bratty catastrophe. Not unless I wanted to see Nick blow his top, which he would, because this was the stupid kind of catastrophe I should've known better than to run straight into with open arms.
She nodded. "That tracks."
I gestured to her screen. "What's new in geological climate science?"
"Old rocks, new data. Same shit, different day, you know?" She closed her laptop. "You look tired."
"Thanks. You're a good friend to insult me to my face." I glanced at Nick. He was busy moving around the kitchen, a dish towel draped over his shoulder and a bottle of beer within arm's reach. "Group therapy is exhausting."
"Probably because you're not allowed to get away with all your bullshit," Nick said. "And believe me, I'm fuckin' thrilled it's Shap calling you on it."
"Why?"