Page 12 of Mayfly

“Did he scream?”

“Like a little bitch.”

“You’re so fucking lucky! All things considered, of course. But, God! It must have felt like all your birthdays had come at once.”

“I suppose,” I mutter down at the table, but clearly not quietly enough because now Jude is leaning against the wood, twisting, and craning his neck to look up at me.

“You suppose?”

“I mean, I wouldn’t know.”

“What’s not to know?”

“What it feels like to have a birthday… To have a cake… To blow out a fucking candle.”

My chair scuffs across the floorboards as I stand. “Let’s go.”

"No."

I’ve been responsible for saving the lives of hundreds of people, but all that pales in comparison to how much I need to rescue this man. This stupidly masculine, well-built man in a tailored suit who looks more like the sort of maniac who’d shoot up a pub instead of someone needing help. But seventeen-year-old me who let him walk away the last time we saw each other doesn’t give two shits about any of that. “This isn’t a discussion.”

Curren’s head falls forward, and with it, a mass of brown waves. “I don’t like being told what to do,” he says, his eyes looking up at me through the hair hanging over his forehead.

His second attempt at refusing me strikes differently. And I can see that, to him as well, time hasn’t changed either of our roles. I’m still the protector, and he still needs my shelter.

“Move your ass. I’m trying to do something nice.”

“I haven’t finished my drink.”

I slide my fingers into the long brown waves at the nape of his neck, grip, and pull, tugging his head back to look at me. “Drink,” I command in a tone far too reminiscent of my fathers, and raise the glass to his mouth.

His lips part, but not to speak—he knows as well as I do it wasn’t a request.

Lifting the glass further, I pour the remaining amber liquid onto his tongue, only for him to hold it in his mouth.

The thought, the position, the wave of his throat as he finally swallows.

Who the hell thinks like this?

“Jude,” he starts, but the rest of his words die in his throat as I release my grip on his hair.

“Let’s go,” I say for a third time, changing nothing about my instructions. And I swear he’s trying to see how far he can push me before I break, because I’ve never seen a person move so slowly.

“Enough," I snap, and grab him by the wrist so I can drag him back through the crowd of people. The whole time my pulse throbs rhythmically in my fingertips as I hold firm against the buttery leather of his gloves, because I expect him to put up a fight. To hit me. Or at the very least try to push me away. But instead, he allows me to lead him, just like he always did.

I can feel more emotion on my face than there has been in years, as I half-heartedly resist the way Jude is dragging me down the uneven cobblestone streets. His hand is gripping my wrist far stronger than it needs to be, but maybe it’s another one of his tests. Maybe he wants me to fight back. To cause a scene. To give him a reason to put me back in my place.

It was never a question of whether or not I was going to leave with him. It was always about seeing how much he wanted it; how far he’s willing to go to make up for lost time—whatever that means.

Trailing one step behind, I’m forced against his back each time he stops—every muscle in my body tensing as the whirr of lunchtime London continues around me.

“Where are you taking me?”

Jude throws a glance back over his shoulder. “If I told you, it wouldn’t be a surprise, now would it?”

My god, I want to unravel him, layer by layer, until there’s nothing left to peel back. “I never took you for a tease.”

“Then I guess there’s a lot for you to catch up on. And in the meantime, why not live a little dangerously?”

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