Page 11 of Desperate Actions

His presence is a force, heavy and all-consuming, even in something as mundane as a hallway.

“Got your key, Pixie?”

My stomach flips.

Pixie.

I forgot he used to call me that. I used to wear my hair short, in like a bob. I’ve grown it out the past two years and now it hangs past my shoulders in a thick, straight line.

But the nickname still wraps around me like a phantom touch, and I feel myself freeze under the weight of it.

My tongue darts out to wet my lips, my mouth suddenly too dry to speak.

“Yeah,” I murmur, lifting my key card.

I expect him to step back, to leave me fumbling with it, but instead, he takes it from me—his fingers brushing against mine as he unlocks the door.

His gaze?

Never leaves me.

My breath stutters as he pushes the door open, stepping inside just enough to drop my bag.

“Inside, Pixie. Now.”

The words shouldn’t do what they do to me.

But my brain goes static, my body frozen in place, like some part of me expects him to follow me in.

What the hell am I waiting for?

For him to kiss me goodbye?

Jesus. What is with me today?

I blink, forcing my legs to move, stepping inside like an idiot who forgot how doors work.

Before I can say something truly humiliating, he halts me again.

“Don’t leave this room alone, okay?” he says.

I frown. “What? Yeah, okay,” I say, confused as hell.

Why is he even telling me this?

His jaw tics, but he doesn’t clarify.

Instead, his gaze lingers—just a beat too long, a second too heavy, like he’s considering something he has no business considering.

“Wear the red.”

His voice is deep and gritty. The words slam into me, knocking the air right out of my lungs.

Before I can process them, he steps back.

And closes the door on himself.

I stand there, staring at the space where he was, my heart hammering against my ribs.

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