Page 47 of Ditching the Dragon (Fated Dates)

He’s continued to text me throughout the day, but we’ve lost all advancement toward an easier friendship.

Gone are the gentle prods for information, the sweet comments, and the thoughtful messages. In its place, original Wick rears his head and roars into the sky, and it makes me wonder if he’s been fooling me or if he’s justthatmad at me.

The text probably won’t help, but I want him to laugh. I need to know he’s smiling. I get nothing from his response. He’s in full-on shut-Annie-down mode like he has been all day.

He doesn’t respond to that.

My brain lobs debate points back and forth over whether that means he’s considering compromising for once or if he just doesn’t want to make it worse.

The ass.

The question takes me aback.

Is that why I’m running?

I wanthim. I feel it in my bones.

And it’s not some stupid magical biology.

I want him. I want his smirks and his wry wit. I want his laugh in person. I want his mouth and hands on me.

And yet, I can’t square that with this intense fear bubbling in my belly.

His text interrupts my panicking.

I power the device down before I give in to temptation and respond.

Chill pricks at my arms and neck exposed to the night in the thin, cowl-necked tank top.

My legs ache, my feet are so sore that they’re numb, and sweat makes my shirt stick to my spine. I stayed out as long as I could before exhaustion takes control.

My muscles shake and my body begs for sleep, even if that means being in yet another lifeless, beige hotel room. I can’t walk around the whole night.

The lock beeps as I push open the door to my latest hotel room. I set my stuff down on the open closet shelves and step out of my shoes, ready to collapse onto clean, white linens.

But when I turn the corner, Wickham Barrett is sitting in my armchair.

Chapter Fourteen

Panic seizes my breath, and my heart sprints to 180 beats per minute. My hair might be bound up into a half-looped bun, my legs bare under the knee-length skirt, but the room is a million degrees.

Because my angry mate is sitting in the armchair beside my bed on the other side of this bland, banal hotel room.

Wickham Barrett is a force of nature in jeans and a fitted black tee. I’ve never seen him in anything other than a suit, or parts of it, and the surprise means I lose a second of reaction time.

He’s casually reclined, with his phone in his hand and his dark hair precisely combed to the side, as if he’s waiting for his coffee order and not to abduct me.

I scan the space for anything I can’t leave without, but I dropped my purse by the door and I don’t have shoes on. My brain whirs at the speed of my heart beating while I work out my escape.

If I can get to the lobby, I can scream for help.

“Annie,” he says, his voice full of reprimand. Dilated pupils and a tight jaw thoroughly establish his frustration.

Fuck the lobby. I’m aiming for the hallway and hoping someone is willing to intervene. I shift my weight onto my back foot, ready to pivot and spring away.

“Don’t, Annie,” he adds.

But I don’t listen. I swing around and run for the exit. I ignore the shoes and purse and make it to the handle before his wide palmslapsonto the surface of the thick door.

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