Page 51 of Our Darkest Summer
From pleading. But it was no use. My legs buckled, and I fell backward, the muddy ground swallowing me whole. The mask loomed above me, its empty gaze peering into the depths of me. The knife rose again, glinting in the dark, mockingly, and?—
“Kinsley.”
A breath, just above my lips.
My body jolted as I gasped for air, my pulse pounding against my ribs. My eyes shot open.Thomas.
He was leaning over me, his face close, his thumb brushing the damp hair out of my forehead. My breath was coming too fast, too shallow, and I couldn’t tell if the trembling in my chest was from fear or something else entirely.
“It was just a bad dream,” he whispered.
Just a dream. I sat up slowly, trying to shake the feeling of cold steel slicing into me, of the mask watching?—
“Where’s Connor?” I asked, blinking against the golden morning light streaming through the window.
“Downstairs,” he answered, sitting on the edge of his own bed.
I nodded, swallowing the weight still pressing against my chest. But it didn’t leave. The mask. The feeling of being hunted. The image of Thomas turning his back on me.
My pulse was still unsteady when I felt it. His hand, warm and slow, resting against my waist.
Not just resting. Tracing.
His fingertips brushed against my skin just beneath the hem of my pajama top, drawing slow, lazy circles.
I stilled.
A shiver rippled through me, the fear of the nightmare morphing into something else. Something warmer. Something I wasn’t prepared for.
The memory of last night flickered against my skin like the last sparks of a fire. His lips on mine, his body pressing me against the pier, the hunger in his touch. His fingers traced another circle against my waist, this time slower.
My thighs clenched.
“What did you dream of?” His voice was lower now, rougher, like he already knew. Like he could see right through me.
I bit my lip, avoiding his gaze.
Dying?
You walking away?
My throat tightened, but I swallowed and forced a practiced, easy shrug.
“I don’t remember.”
I reached for the glass of water on the nightstand, and gulped it down to avoid the weight of his stare. When I set it back down, Thomas was still watching me. His gaze roamed over my face.
“Let me help you.”
I stilled. Something in the air between us changed, thickened. Pressed against my skin like invisible hands.
I blinked. “Help me?”
A barely-there smile tugged at his lips. Almost predatory. His scent—cedar, the crisp air of a storm—wrapped around me, making my limbs feel heavy. His other hand slid up my thigh, slow and deliberate. A whisper of warmth. A promise of something dangerous.
I should have stopped this. I should have stoppedhim. But I didn’t move.
“Let me help you relax.”
