Page 27 of Rescuing Sophia

I pace the narrow corridor, my steps quick and uneven, tension coiling through me like a tightly wound spring, ready to snap.

I can’t stay here.

I can’t leave.

I stop mid-stride, pressing my back against the cool, unforgiving wall, trying to ground myself. My breath comes in ragged gasps, and I rake a hand through my hair. The sensation of my fingers against my scalp does little to calm the storm raging inside me. I close my eyes, but all I can see is Sophia’s face, her eyes filled with hurt and rejection.

My body betrays me, arousal building painfully. I’m furious, disgusted by how badly I want her. This primal need clashes violently with my sense of duty, tearing me apart from the inside out.

Goddammit.

I want her.

I push off the wall, taking a few steps away from her door, my fists clenched at my sides. The hallway stretches out before me, an endless path leading away from temptation. Each step feels like I’m losing her—abandoning her—when she needs me the most.

Fuck.

I take a step toward the elevator, then stop. My heart hammers against my ribcage, a frantic rhythm that matches the chaos in my mind. I should leave. I need to leave. But my feet refuse to move.

I turn back, my feet dragging me toward her door, driven by a force I can’t control. My hand twitches at my side, already imagining the feel of her soft skin beneath my fingertips. The memory of her lips on mine sends a jolt of electricity down my spine.

My hand lifts, trembling violently as I bring it closer to the door. The weight of my emotions—desire, guilt, fear—threatens to crush me.

I can’t do this.

I shouldn’t.

She’s been through so much already, and the last thing she needs is me complicating her life.

I let my hand fall to my side, frustration bubbling up inside me. The heat of my desire clashes with the cold reality of the situation. She deserves better than this—better than me.

“Dammit.” I run a hand through my hair.

I walk away again, but the pull is too strong. I’m denying a part of myself that I can’t ignore. I pivot, turning back once more, my resolve crumbling.

My arousal and frustration mix into a potent cocktail, clouding my thoughts. I can’t think straight, can’t focus on anything but the overpowering need to be near her. My body and mind are at war, and I’m losing on both fronts.

The hallway is quiet; the only sound is the soft hum of the building’s ventilation system. The scent of lavender lingers in the air. I take a deep breath, trying to steady my racing heart, but the scent brings back memories of her—memories I can’t push away.

Fuck this.

I pause at the window at the end of the hall, pressing my forehead against the cool glass. The night sky stretches before me, stars twinkling innocently, oblivious to my inner turmoil. I close my eyes, trying to center myself, to find some semblance of the control I’ve always prided myself on.

But all I can see is Sophia: the way her eyes darkened with desire, the soft gasp she made when I pulled away, and the hurt and confusion on her face as I stammered out pathetic excuses.

My body responds to the memories, a rush of heat flooding through me. I grit my teeth, furious at my lack of control. This isn’t me. No matter how beautiful or tempting, I don’t lose my head over a woman.

But Sophia isn’t just any woman. She’s my responsibility, my charge. Someone who’s been through hell and back, who needs protection and support, not another man taking advantage of her vulnerability.

The thought is like getting doused by a bucket of ice water. I straighten, shame washing over me. What kind of man am I to consider crossing that line?

I turn away from the window, determined to put as much distance between myself and temptation as possible. As I pass Sophia’s door again, a muffled sound draws me up short, makes my breath hitch, my heart clench.

Is she crying?

My hand rises of its own accord, hovering inches from the door. I should knock, ensure she’s okay, and apologize for my behavior. But if I knock, I’m not sure I’ll have the strength to walk away.

I lower my hand, conflict tearing me apart. The need to comfort her wars with the knowledge that I’m the last person who should be offering that comfort right now.

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