Page 12 of Into the Woods

“Come here,” he says, taking another sip from his glass.

I take a tentative step forward.

“Closer.”

Another step.

“Jesus fucking Christ, Winifred. Come. To. Me.”

I flinch, not just at his tone, though that’s enough to send a shiver down my spine, but the use of my full name again. I hate it.

“I hate everything about that name,” I say. “You never used to call me that.” My voice is small. Weak. Bumbling. “You used to call me Winn when we were kids. What happened to you?”

He huffs a laugh, but it’s not a happy one. This laugh is sad. Angry. Full of nothing but discontent.

“More than you can imagine. You wouldn’t believe the shit I’ve been through since I last saw you in the woods,” he says. “But I was never a kid, Winnie—not really. I wasn’t allowed the luxury of having a real childhood. Any freedom I knew, any carefree moments, all happened in those woods with a little girl who had the sweetest disposition and honey-blonde braids. Your innocence is the only thing I ever experienced that hinted at what a childhood was supposed to be. You and those goddamn woods were my escape from the shitstorm of my reality.”

My head snaps back like I’ve been slapped. “You think you had a shit childhood? You’re kidding me, right? How many times did you get shoved out of the house so you didn’t disturb your parents’ parties? How many times did you stuff your feet into shoes that were torn and two sizes too small? Did you ever go to bed hungry?” An angry laugh huffs free as flames of embarrassment crawl up my neck, heating my cheeks. “Tell me…how many times did you run to your room, looking for an escape, a safe place to lock yourself away, only to find a stranger passedout on your bed? Or better yet, fucking on it? Huh? How many times, Christophe?”

Memories flood back in of all the times I escaped from that fucked up life, running through the woods. Curling up with a threadbare blanket under our tree, praying that Christophe would be there. Knowing that, even in the summer, there was no way he would know to come, that he never knew how much I needed those few precious weeks each summer to pretend that my life was okay.

Tears sting at my eyes, threatening to fall. It’s sheer will that keeps them from spilling and trailing down my face. Years and years of neglect and need instilled a stubborn streak in me that is still a mile wide. And if this is a dick measuring contest with Christophe Robicheaux, it’s one I’m going to win.

Emotion swirls in his eyes—anger maybe, or remorse—before they go cold and hard again. Nothing like not addressing the elephant, not even hiding in plain sight. No, this one is sitting right in the middle of everything in a hot pink tutu with streamers raining down on it.

He pushes off the desk and obliterates the space between us, much like he did the last time I saw him. Only then, he really was smiling. Now though, it seems like the world is pressing down on him, a black cloud just over his shoulder casting him in ominous shadow.

He’s so close I can feel him brush against me with each inhaled breath. His broad, muscled chest grazing against me has my core tightening and my nipples drawing into tight peaks.

He lifts the glass of whiskey and drains half the contents all while keeping me captive in his steely stare. The intensity of his ice-blue eyes is almost overwhelming. I should be shaking in my wannabe Louboutins. The only reason I’m not, is because I didn’t want to waste the money on red paint to cover the solesof my cheap shoes. Make no mistake, though, I am absolutely shaking.

Nerves. Excitement. Anticipation.

Unexpected thoughts race through my head, spinning and whirling until my brain is a muddled, sticky pile of goo.

Why is he so close?

Is he going to kiss me?

Do I want him to?

The last question is the only one I can answer and that is a resounding yes. The jolt of that realization is enough to make me jerk away from Christophe. And as much as that doesn’t make a lick of sense, his reaction to my move is…everything.

His free hand darts out and he cups the back of my head, holding me in place. My scalp stings, dancing on the edge of pain as he weaves his fingers through my hair, locking my tresses in his fist.

I can’t move.

I don’t want to.

I want to live here, in the dark and shadows of this moment, breathing in this man. His scent of sandalwood and whiskey. His confidence. The danger and intrigue that swirl around him in a haze so thick, it wraps around us like mist in the woods.

My first crush.

The last person I thought I’d ever see again.

Chapter 6

Danger

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