Page 74 of Wicked Court

“Hold on!”

My command mixes with the chill night air. I pull her against me as we slide further down the incline. The cloak that had been a nuisance now proves its worth as it shields both of us from nature’s indiscriminate wrath.

When we finally come to an abrupt halt at the base of the slope amidst a pile of fallen leaves and underbrush, any breath I had left is stolen away by Elara’s trembling form pressed against mine—agitated whimpers slipping past her gritted teeth.

My fingers probe gently around her skull, ensuring she hadn’t suffered any serious injury during our calamitous descent.

When my explorations yield no alarming discovery, relief floods me like a tsunami, leaving me quaking with its aftermath.

“Jesus fucking Christ.” My voice is rough, fringed with remnants of fear I refuse to acknowledge. “Are you hurt anywhere?”

Her gaze finds mine in the darkness, the moonlight seeping through the canopy above us giving her an unearthly glow.

She shakes her head, lips quivering as she tries to form words, but only manages a snagged breath.

The sigh that leaves me is shaky—my fingers tracing her cheekbone in a bizarre display of tenderness I never knew I was capable of.

Elara blinks at the unexpected touch, surprise flickering in her eyes before waning and surrendering.

I help her sit up, hands carefully avoiding any possible injury.

The silence that falls between us resonates with everything unsaid—every apology I’d never dare voice out loud.

I’m sorry I pulled away from you. I’m sorry you’re with me.

For now, the words remain buried beneath the tremulous beats of my racing heart.

“I think,” Elara says, her voice feeble but steady, “you guys need to hire a better landscaper.”

I grumble a barely audible agreement.

But as I pull her closer against me for warmth, every cell in my body screams one word over and over with a fervor that could light the blackest corners of my soul.

Safe.

Chapter 23

Elara

Axe Devereaux shouldn’t affect me, not when there’s active danger lurking behind him like Peter Pan’s shadow. And definitely not when his “interrogation” a few hours ago twisted into something sexual and brutal.

But Axe isn’t just any college guy. He’s a paradox, a hazardous blue flame, and I am merely the stupid moth fluttering nearby.

My mind’s in overdrive as we move off that horrific, rocky incline and into a dense, ancient forest, where the canopy above is so thick it swallows the moonlight, plunging us into the black.

Axe turns on his phone’s flashlight, though I doubt it’s for his benefit.

He leads with confidence, navigating the forest’s natural obstacles with ease—an ease born of countless nocturnal journeys, I’m sure.

“Thank you for protecting me,” I say quietly, breaking the synchronization of our breaths as we walk.

“Always,” he replies without looking over.

It’s more of a vow than a response. I press my lips together at his tone.

The urge to touch him is overwhelming, to trace the line of his jaw, to feel the warmth of his skin against the coldness I’ve long accepted as my constant companion tonight. But the way he recoiled at my attempt, the damage that clearly mars his soul, holds me back.

I stumble again, and Axe steadies me, his other hand reflexively brushing my waist. I shiver under his touch, and I know he feels it, and it’s like a spark to dry tinder.

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