Page 12 of Wolf of the Storm
He offers his hand. I take it.
The moment our skin touches, electricity arcs between us—not metaphorical, but actual visible sparks that make me gasp and jerk back. We both stare at our hands, then at each other.
"Static electricity," Declan says, but his voice is rough, and those storm-grey eyes have darkened to near-black. "The wool coat and dry air."
It's a reasonable explanation. It's also nonsense, because the air here is anything but dry, and I've never experienced static shock that felt like touching a live wire.
"Right," I manage. "Static. Of course."
Moira is watching us with an expression I can't read. Several of the other diners have gone very still, their attention focused on Declan and me with an intensity that feels wrong.
"I should..." I grab my coffee cup, needing something to do with my hands. "My breakfast is probably ready."
"Let me help you." Declan reaches for my camera bag before I can stop him.
"I can carry my own bags," I say, but he's already lifting it with one hand like it weighs nothing, his other hand hovering near my elbow in a gesture that's somehow both protective and possessive.
"I know you can." His voice drops lower, and there's something in his eyes—hunger, maybe, or recognition. "But I want to."
It's the strangest interaction I've ever had with a stranger. Every instinct screams that I should step back, maintain distance, not follow this man anywhere. But my body seems to have other ideas, pulled toward him despite every warning bell in my head.
Moira sets a plate on the bar—my breakfast, though I've suddenly lost my appetite. "Room three upstairs is private if you two want to talk," she says, and there's a pointed edge to the way she emphasizes "private." Her eyes flick meaningfully to theother diners, who are watching our interaction with undisguised interest.
Right. Small town, big gossip. Though why I need privacy to talk to a stranger is beyond me.
Declan nods once, sharply, and gestures toward the stairs. "This way."
"I'm not staying here," I point out, even as I pick up my plate. "I have a house."
"I know." His hand hovers near my elbow again. "But you might want breakfast somewhere without an audience."
He's not wrong. Every person in this dining room is pretending not to watch while absolutely watching. I follow him up to the second floor, very aware of how his shoulders move beneath the coat, how his presence fills the narrow hallway. He opens a door to a small, cozy room with a window overlooking the harbor and sets my bag down carefully.
When he turns to face me, we're standing too close in the small space. I should step back. I don't.
"Why did you really come to Stormhaven?" His voice is quiet, intense. "The truth."
"My aunt died. I'm settling her estate." It's not a lie, but it's not the whole truth either. "Why do you care?"
He doesn't answer. Just watches me with those storm-grey eyes that seem to see too much. "You're a journalist."
It's not a question. "Yes."
"And journalists ask questions."
"It's what I do," I say, lifting my chin. "Is that a problem?"
Conflict flickers in his expression—concern, maybe fear. "Some questions are dangerous, Eliza. Especially here."
"Is that a threat?"
"It's a warning." He reaches out as if to touch my face, then stops himself, his hand falling back to his side. "This island keeps its secrets. You should let it."
"Like what happened to my aunt?"
The muscle in his jaw tightens. "Your aunt died in an accident. Tragic, but natural."
"And if I don't believe that?"
