Page 53 of Black Heart

In response to the unspoken question that’s probably written all over my face, Kaden’s mask dips down, his apathetic gaze trailing over my skimpy tank top and underwear, to my bare feet, my toes curling against the hardwood.

“Are you cold?” he suddenly asks, his illuminated eyes the only brightness in the pitch-dark room. There’s a note of something indistinct interlaced within his voice, like the sound of a gun’s safety being turned off.

I don’t respond because, honestly, I’m not sure if I am. Myskin tingles in a way that’s reminiscent of the cold, but it’s more invasive. More primal. My knees knock together and my breath hitches.

“Answer me.”

His command is punctuated by an unforgiving jab of lightning that dances behind the closed blinds. The room plunges into sheer darkness again, and I can feel him—Kaden, The Scythe—close enough to touch.

“I ... yes,” I admit, my voice merely a whisper against the drumming rain hitting the roof. “I am.”

His next move is as quick as it is unexpected. In one swift motion, he picks me up effortlessly, cradling me against his chest. My surprised gasp is lost against the thunderous backdrop of the storm outside.

The mattress dips under our combined weight, his mask hovering just above my face. The warmth of his body seeps into me, chasing away the chill that had settled on my skin. I squirm at the cool sensation of the sheets against my thighs, blushing in the darkness.

His voice is rough, almost inaudible as he speaks. “Stay under the covers. Keep warm.”

Kaden moves around the room, carefully lifting, then depositing Reaper and her kittens back in her corner with additional blankets. In the lightning-streaked darkness, I notice him shed his leather jacket, then settle beside me, above the covers.

His proximity is unnerving. Electrifying. The heat radiating from him is a paradox. Comforting, yet disturbingly extreme.

“I won’t touch you,” he says. “I have to stay close, now that there’s nothing to help me monitor you or your property.”

I nod in understanding, my heart pounding an erratic rhythm against my ribs. He’s here for his own ends, not for my comfort. I need to remember that.

But his confirmation does nothing to temper the crackling lightning inside me.

Kaden’s promise feels empty as the hours crawl by. I toss and turn, throwing off the covers at the increased heat my inner lightning strikes keep reigniting.

My mind refuses to slumber, too consumed by Kaden’s proximity, his lethal presence penetrating any dreams I might have. I’m remembering the taste of him, the silk of him, the noises he made when I forced him to come undone.

Surprisingly, it’s Kaden who shatters the quietude first, his ragged breath cutting through the room. “Wraithling…”

His voice is a warning growl. Rough, desperate.

“You need to stop—moving around, so much.”

I hear a harsh intake of breath, like he’s trying to control himself.

I can’t sleep, I start to explain, then realize what a compromising position I’m in.

I’m on my back, my legs splayed on top of the covers, my shirt riding up under my breasts with all my twisting.

Right. He has night vision.

“I … I didn’t mean…” I stammer, trying to straighten my top but instead brushing against him.

Kaden’s hand snaps out, gripping my wrist. His fingers are cool and firm against my over-heated skin.

“Layla,” he says, an undertone of warning detectable even through his neutral mask.

With a slow deliberation born of restraint so iron-strong it leaves me breathless, his scarred knuckles brush against the exposed skin of my abdomen.

I have to remind myself, this isn’t the Kaden who saves kittens and pushes me out of the path of oncoming vehicles. This is the Scythe—the trained, cold-blooded killer.

I clench my fists as his hand creeps upward, exploringthe terrain of my body with unerring precision. My breath becomes audible, my breasts rising and falling under his masked gaze.

His thumb circles the edge of my navel as a rumble escapes him. “So soft.”

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