Page 22 of The Secrets of Roan Island

“Why?” Shemaiah asks. “You didn’t cause it.”

I hear her huff of breath, as if she’s slightly amused by his response, but before she can say anything, she spins because now she hears me. And fuck if my breath doesn’t stall when I see her. She’s dressed in something—who cares what—but it’s the blush on her cheeks, the way her eyes widen, the tremor in her breath. It’s the pulse point I see in the column of her neck andthe way she grips her hands tighter in front of her. Her scent. Fuck. Fuck.Fuck.

She looks good enough to eat. Like last night. When I caught her in the hallway outside the entry to the Gate House and her robe gaped, offering me that creamy expanse of skin from neck to breast, I’d pondered leaning forward to see if she tasted as good as she fucking smelled. Nearly had, before reason hit.

She needs to leave.

“Let’s go,” I snap. “You’re supposed to be at the dock.”

“Noah,” Shemaiah starts, but I cut him off with a look.

Her eyes narrow and her jaw tenses before she says, “If you send me away before I get my grant, I’ll lose everything.”

“I can live with that.” I grip her elbow. Her exaggerated exasperation doesn’t concern me. Her life does. “I need you on that boat.”

She jerks out of my grip. “I need–” But she clamps her mouth shut on the words, and I wonder for just a heartsbeat what she was going to say. Then I remind myself, I don’t need to know. I need her off this island.

“Noah,” Shemaiah repeats.

“Shem,” I warn.

His eyes narrow, his meaning clear. He thinks she can help for some reason. A fool’s errand. A dangerous one. Our father is a veritable game of chance. Letting her stay, telling her our secrets, it’s too risky. I shake my head and focus on the professor shooting daggers at me with her beautiful eyes. “You can go with or without your things. It makes no difference to me. Choose.”

She huffs and stomps past me back toward the entrance to the greenhouse.

“I think you’re being shortsighted,” my brother says.

I glance at him. “I have no intention of putting her in a position you are intimately familiar with.”

My brother’s face turns rigid. “Careful.”

“Or what? I won’t make the same mistake you did.”

I hear his hearts speed up, and his hands curl into fists. Will he hit me? It would be unlike Shemaiah, but I’d welcome it. Welcome the feeling of his anger and power. It would at least be a distraction from my failure and my constant thoughts about a certain professor who’s worked her way under my skin so quickly.

But he doesn’t hit me. Instead, he turns and disappears through the greenery, and I’m left to chase Ruby Rose up to her room, where she’s angrily packing her things.

I lean my shoulder against the doorframe as I watch her, neither of us speaking, both brooding. She picks up her packed bag, ratty and tattered as it is, and steps my way. I grab the handle as she passes me by, but she doesn’t let go, her hand gripping tighter next to mine.

“I can carry my own damn bag.” She glares at me with the ferocity of a cat threatening a lion. She has no idea the power she’s up against. I could throw her over my shoulder and have her down at the dock faster than she could say my name.

“Be angry all you want, little professor, but let me help you.”

She jerks against my hold. “Like you’ve helped me this entire time? Setting out useless books, making no argument on my behalf with your father, and now kicking me out on my backside.”

The mention of her backside has me longing to throw her over my knee and spank that stubbornness out of her. I let go of the bag, flex my fist, and stomp down the hall. “Come.”

Once we finally get to the dock, I feel like I can breathe a bit easier. It’s cold, the blustery wind whipping across the lake, pulling tendrils of her mahogany hair from her bun. The red of the water is only a few shades lighter than her hair, darker than her blood, full of the promise of what could happen if I don’t get her out of here. Her back is rigid, the satchel with her thingsclutched in front of her. Her cheeks and nose are bright pink, her lips plump.

My hearts knock against my chest. “Please, let me hold that for you.” I’m suddenly feeling bad about our earlier exchange.

“My opinion hasn’t changed,” she says around a tight jaw.

I snort and wrap my hand around hers, grasping for the handle. I gently tug at it, thinking more about the frigid temperature of her fingers.

“Your hands are freezing. Put them in your pockets.”

“Whose fault is that?” she challenges, drawing her bag back against her. “I wouldn’t be out here if it weren’t for you.”

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