Chapter 18 · Untitled Chapter

The lamp was dead. His hand was still on the back of my neck, gripping like a warning.

“Say it again.” Torin’s breath hitched against my ear. “Tell me you don’t want my hands on you.”

There was dried blood in his knuckles. Not his. It smelled like iron and a cold, brutal end. “You’re dripping on my floor, Torin.”

“I’ll drip where I want.”

“That’s the problem with you.”

His fingers slid down, pressing into my pulse. He felt the flutter beneath my skin—the betrayal of my own body.

“Nine days,” he rasped, turning me to face him. “Nine days of you smelling like wet earth and a burned-out truck. I thought you were just hiding. Then I smelled the mountain mint and yarrow.” He tipped my chin up, his gaze heavy with intent. “Old Marta says that dose stops a cycle dead. Desperate women take it. Or women hiding something they’re scared I’ll kill.”

“Both,” I said, flat.

I shoved his hand away. “I’m hiding from what you turn into when you decide something belongs to you. You looked through me like a window for three years. Don't act like you care now.”

His eyes darkened.