Twisted Fate (Dark Heart 2)

“Okay…” I chew my lip. It’s surreal to look down and see a peek of those blue eyes. He shifts his shoulders as I work the thick fleece off him. Now I feel as if he’s trying not to look at me. I find a long-sleeved white T-shirt under the fleece. With just the soaked cotton covering his chest, I can see how fast he’s breathing, see the way his ribs are flanging with each rough breath, and see his sculpted lower abs. It’s obvious he works out—like…a lot.

I wrench my gaze away and meet his. “Do you like this shirt?”

I watch him clench his jaw to stop his teeth from chattering. “It…doesn’t m-matter.”

“You want me to try to get it over your head or cut it?”

He shakes his head. “Cut it.”

His voice is raspy. I’m not working fast enough; even his hips and legs are shaking.

“I’m going to cut neatly around the neck and down the side so you could have it sewn back if you want.”

He nods. My fingers brush his cold skin as I cut. God, he feels like ice. I try not to notice the thick ridges of muscle under his goosebumped skin. When I brush his side near his pec, he jumps a little. I can feel him try to lift his arm as I start down the sleeve’s seam.

“Once I get down to your wrist, roll over onto your side. I can pull the shirt and all the jackets off.”

I’m not looking at him when I say that. Once I get the shirt cut, so my hands and the scissors are at his wrist, I glance down and find his eyes on me. As soon as our gazes touch, he shuts them and shifts onto his side as I advised.

I move behind him as the cut shirt falls away, baring his trembling back. For a second, I can’t remember how to breathe air. Then I flush—a weird, whole-body cold sweat, like some sort of lovesick automaton. My hand hovers near his shoulder blade. I snatch it away, working briskly as I pull the jackets off and tuck blankets around his torso.

“Getting some hot water. Be right back.”

I fill a sports bottle and then a glass, and find a wrapped fast food straw in the cutlery drawer. I don’t let myself look over at him as I unwrap the straw and stick it in the glass. So when I turn back around, I’m surprised to find him sitting up, his back against the back of the couch. He’s got a brown fleece blanket over his shoulders. His long legs are stretched out, feet still clad in boots, his gaze fixed on the small, two-seater dining table right in front of him.

He doesn’t shift his eyes my way until I’m sitting cross-legged right beside him. When he does, I can’t read his face, which makes my stomach do a small flip. “Got you this,” I tell him, holding up the plastic bottle, “to hold against you. You know, like to warm your body.”

I can feel my cheeks blaze on the words “your body,” but I press on. “You should drink this,” I say, holding the glass out.

He reaches for it like he’s going to take it, but his fingers are still really shaking.

“Here…” I lean closer, holding the straw toward his lips. I can smell him as he shuts his eyes and takes a few long swallows. Soap, maybe deodorant, and something dark and spicy that makes something clench low in my belly.

I’m relieved when he stops drinking. I lean away, set the glass down on the floor beside us, and pick up the bottle.

“Hold this up against you, if you can.” I set the bottle atop the blanket. Then I frown down at him, realizing…“You know, I think we need to get your boots off, then the wet pants.”

I can see his throat move on a swallow, even as his eyes fix on the table. He’s not shaking as hard as he was, but the skin around his lips still has a blue hue. With that beanie and his dark brows, those blue eyes and that scruff, he looks like an Instagram model, or a sexy pirate. And it’s insane that I think so; I know it is.

“I can’t get them off.” The words sound like they’re coming through clenched teeth.

“I can. You just need to lie back down.”

Our eyes lock. God, he’s like a language I can’t unknow. He’s unhappy or maybe…uncomfortable.

“Lie down, Luca. I’ve touched pants before.”

He does—on his side, and then he shifts, with some effort, onto his back. I can tell it’s hard for him to move, or hurts, because his face twists again.

“You’ll feel better with these freezing things off.” His eyes shut. “Do your pants have a button?”

His jaw tics as his nostrils flare. “No.”