Page 17 of The Masks We Break

I yank the heavy comforter from my frame, trying my best to ignore the way my body shivers. Hopefully, he’s still asleep on the couch. Or if I’m lucky, he could be gone, maybe to work or football practice perhaps.

Crossing my fingers, I wrap my hand around the cool metal doorknob and twist it so slowly, it feels like I’m not moving it at all. When the door finally unlatches, I push it open with light pressure. The dark sofa comes into my line of sight first.

Empty.

But just as the knot of tension unwinds in my shoulders, a lump forms in my throat.

Blaze has his bare back to me, standing in front of the stove. The low kitchen light shines over the top of his broad tan shoulders, highlighting every muscle. They flex with the slightest of movements, sending butterflies into a frenzy in my stomach.

So much for sneaking out.

I do my best to swallow, but my mouth is suddenly dry, and it forces a garbled cough to spill from my mouth.

Blaze’s head turns slightly, that darn gray eye finding me in his peripheral, gluing me to my spot.

“Good morning. How are you feeling?” Somehow, his voice is lower than sin, and it drives straight into my core.

Hoping it disguises the sudden blush blooming on my cheeks, I rub under my eyes and fake a slight yawn. Instead of risking my stutter giving me away, I lean into his bedroom doorframe and hold up my fingers, pressing my thumb and pointer into an ‘okay’ symbol.

Something between a grunt and huff resounds in the air before he turns back to the stove. “Did you take the medicine and drink theentireglass of water I left on the bedside table?”

“The what?”

My eyebrows furrow as I turn to look back at the mess of a bed I’d left behind. The room is a tad brighter with the light from the kitchen, and sure enough, sitting next to the hub is a full cup, with two small white tablets next to it.

Seeing it does something funny to my pulse, and it pulls at the frail piece of hope still stuck to my heart I can’t seem to snap.

“I’ll take that as a no.”

My body jolts, gasping at the sudden proximity of his voice as I whip back around and find Blaze a foot away. A black stone plate in one hand, and mug in the other.

I can’t help but let my eyes trail down his glorious body. He’s sculpted and defined, and everything I imagine when I read about a guy in one of my books. His abs cut into a sharp V toward the waistband of his gray sweats, which is literally the reason #graysweatpantseason is a hashtag. My face is on fire now, but I don’t succumb to the powerful urge to keep my head down and instead look up, catching his gaze.

Unlike what I vaguely remember from last night, it’s calm and completely unreadable. So Blaze.

“Have a seat at the bar. I’ll bring it with your breakfast.”

I hold up a hand in protest. “I’m fine, really. I’m going to just head—”

“I’m not letting you walk home before you eat something and drink some water. You’re already partially dehydrated.”

“And I’m not a child, Blaze. I can do all that when I get home.” An irrational amount of anger floods through me, though I’m not sure why. He’s always managed to do things like this. Look out for me in terms of my safety, as if he genuinely cares but then shuts me out in every other way. It’s infuriating, and it’s the sole reason I can never seem to let go of the idea of him completely. And I’m ready to be over that.

I use the ounce of adrenaline suddenly coursing through me and move past him, careful not to let my shoulder touch his, but I only get two feet.

“Puppet. Sit your ass down.Now.”

Never have I been told to do anything in the way Blaze just spit his command. His harsh words leave no room for me to choose otherwise, and something in me that’s too strong to ignore forces me to listen. It’s like I can’t control it. It ignites my pulse, and I feel every beat tenfold.

With an exaggerated huff, I take a quick left to reach the barstool and have to perch on my tiptoes to slide my butt across the cold wooden seat. My spine is stiff as I keep my back facing the fire raging behind me. His eyes burn into my exposed shoulder, and I adjust to cover it, a strange mix of irritation and arousal taking over. I don’t know what the heck is wrong with me, but Ilikebeing told to do things by him, and that thought feels dangerous.

Then the heat disappears, and I don’t bother looking back to know he’s gone into his room. It’s always been that way with him. Hot when he’s close, freezing when he isn’t, making me wish I was near him again.

I know it’s pathetic. I’ve said it to myself more than once as I focused on school or drowned myself in the fictional characters piled on every surface of my room. Heck, even when I dated other men or experienced them sexually, nothing lit that same fire in me the way Blaze always has. And before last night, he hadn’t even touched me.

Just as I think it, he reappears, using those same ninja skills from before and standing next to me with said medicine and water. My fingers thread together as I ignore the heat flowing from him and ghosting across my skin, leaving goose bumps at the nape of my neck. He slides it on the counter in front of me, accompanied by a plate of breakfast. Over-easy eggs, a slice of wheat toast, and avocado with a mug of... you have got to be kidding.

“Mango tea?” I meet his gaze, failing at reading his face.

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