Page 43 of Broken Lines

“Okay, all good,” I blurt hastily.

Jackson eyes the bandage and raises his eyes to me, even if I’m fastidiously avoiding his gaze.

“Okay,” he sighs. “Fine.”

I frown.

“Fine…what?”

“Fine you can stay.”

I glare at him as the light outside turns black, and the rain begins to hammer down harder.

“I thought I already was staying?”

“Well now it’s official. You’re welcome.”

He stands, ignoring my glaring stare as he disappears back into the living room. I follow behind him, shifting uncomfortably as my still-damp clothes and boots rub awkwardly.

I pause, glancing around the room. For a place with no cell service that looks like it was built almost two-hundred years ago, I almost expected this house to not even to have electricity. But he clearly does…I mean there are lights on, and there’s a big refrigerator in the kitchen. So, he must have some sort of generator, or wires laid under the ocean or something.

Which also might mean he’s got a washer and dryer.

I clear my throat at his back.

“Could I…possibly use your dryer? I’m still pretty wet.”

Jackson pauses. Slowly, he glances back at me with what can only be described as a heated look.

“And?”

I frown.

“And…I was hoping I…”

My words fumble and falter as he turns fully towards me. But when he starts to slink towards me, like an apex predator causally approaching the prey that’s already been immobilized, my face explodes with heat.

I want to be incensed and outraged at the way he keeps so causally invading my personal space or turning me to smoldering ash with those eyes. Or scandalizing me with his crude, wildly inappropriate comments.

I want to hit him, or hurl insults at him. Or call him a pig. But instead, my head—treacherously—invents all sorts of other…physicalthings it wants to do with this god of a man standing in front of me covered in tattoos and swirling with forbidden lust and dark magic.

Did I hit my fucking head today or something?

Jackson moves slowly towards me. I tremble, feeling a pulsing heat simmer beneath the surface, fighting hard to break itself free.

“And what should we do about that?”

“About…” My breath catches as my eyes slip up to his. “About what?”

“About you being…wet,” he growls quietly.

I have to physically stifle the gasp by slamming my lip shut. And Jackson definitely sees it. He smirks, pleased with the way he’s ruffled me—again—as he looms over me.

“I…”

I stammer, trying to collect my wits before I finally find them. And when I do, my lips purse and I force myself to take a step back from him.

Thereneedsto be air between us, or I’m going to suffocate in that dark energy of his.

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