Huh. I never realized how many mads there really were before this moment. There’s a hungry mad, frantic mad, impatient mad, probably even a sex mad. Mad, mad, mad.
I nuzzle into him and sniff him again. “The sense of smell is totally cool, isn’t it?” I ask a bit dreamily.
He pauses for a beat as he continues to carry me, my body bobbing along with his steps. “Sure,” he says in a clipped tone. Because, you know, he’s mad.
“If you think about it, smelling is, like, inhaling for your brain. Like a brainhale. You give such a good brainhale, Warren Knight.”
I shove my face further against his chest and close my eyes so that I can really let my sniffs take over all my senses.
Ahhh. Damn, that’s nice.
“You smell like wood chips and jazz music and smirks.”
A noise that sounds like a startled laugh escapes his chest. “You’re stoned out of your mind, aren’t you?”
“Yup,” I say popping my P. I do it a few more times because the sound is like a concert on my lips. “And you know what? I’m not a fan of the being of the high. Which is ironic, considering I’m a natural flyer,” I tell him.
He mumbles something that I don’t catch, because I’m suddenly too focused on petting his jaw scruff. Part of my brain realizes I probably shouldn’t be doing this, because it’s not polite to pet people without permission, but I just can’t stop myself. “You got good scruff,” I tell him. “It’s, like, a solid soft-to-scratchy ratio. I give you an A.”
“I’m glad you approve.”
I yawn. Holy blue balls, I’m sleepy.
When I pull my eyes open again, he’s placing me gently in the front seat of his car. I have no idea where his date went, but I’m so glad she’s gone.
“Where’d the blonde go?” I ask.
“I put her in a cab when I saw you talking to that douche at the bar,” he says tersely as he buckles me in.
Surprise slowly filters through me. His words echo in my head again. She’s mine, she’s mine, she’s mine.
“Why?” I ask.
“I wasn’t interested,” he answers before shutting the door with a snap.
My head lolls over on the seat so that I can watch him as he walks around the car and then slips into the driver’s side.
As he pulls the car out onto the road, I watch as the lights from the other cars illuminate his brooding demeanor, making the hard planes of his face seem even sharper. He’s so achingly beautiful.
“Thank you for saving me,” I whisper, the words seeping through the space between us.
He looks over at me, the furious glare still very much present in his eyes. “That was a completely stupid thing to do, Trix,” he admonishes me. He’s gripping the steering wheel so hard that his knuckles are white with strain. “If I hadn’t been there…” he trails off, the muscle in his jaw jumping as he clenches his teeth.
I don’t want him to be angry with me. I don’t want him to have that wild fear in his gaze anymore. I put that there, and I want to take it away.
I reach over and gently let my fingertips graze the dark line of his jaw. “I’m okay,” I tell him gently. “I’m okay because of you.”
I watch as his eyes squeeze shut for a moment, pain evident in the creases. A sigh escapes him, the exhale filled with shaky relief, and then his posture finally relaxes.
This. This right here is the Warren beneath the mask. This is the Warren I love.
Dammit.
I love him.
I realize that fact with stark, stunning clarity, despite the fuzziness of everything else. I think I’ve loved him since the day I first saw him, stuck behind the unhappiness of his own mask. There was something about him that always drew me in like a moth to a mesmerizing flame.
Just as I realize the truth of my feelings, I also realize the truth of my reality.