Page 173 of Entangled

With shaking hands, I peel back the covers. I put on my glasses like they’re armor, gather my workbook and notepad, then stand.

Beau runs his eyes over me, then smiles faintly as he shakes his head. “You’re going to make Jasper’s night.”

I frown at him, but he continues before I can ask what he means. “You want me to come? Moral support?”

My heart melts a little, but I squeeze his hand. “I need to do this myself.”

He nods in understanding, and I make my way quickly to Jasper’s room, only for a sleepily disgruntled Heather to tell me he isn’t there.

But at the end of the hall, light peers up at me from under the library door like a will-o’-the-wisp beckoning me on. Not wanting to wake anyone else, I pad softly toward the promising light and slip through the door.

Jasper is draped over an enormous armchair by the fireplace, a book open on his lap. His white silk shirt is unbuttoned at the collar, and his inky hair is ever so slightly mussed, the silvers at his temple more pronounced. He’s kissed all over by the warm light, haloed by the fire like some righteous angel.

He glances up as I enter. Under his gaze, I pause by the door, feeling weighed and measured for entrance into his space.

“Eden.” Without looking away from me, he closes his book. “Are you well?”

The hard edges of his workbook press into the skin of my arms. It’s incredible how difficult it is to bite back my usual instinct to smile demurely and murmur something reassuring.

Instead, I press my trembling lips together and shake my head.

The heart-cutting angles of his face soften. “Come here.”

When he calls, I come.

Moving toward Jasper never feels like mechanical motions. There is no one foot in front of the other, no notion of distance. It feels like floating through space, planets tightening an orbit. I’m a riverboat on the Styx, drifting toward fate.

He watches me as I’m pulled closer, knowing and calm, like a benevolent god accepting a supplicant. When I stop in front of him, I see the faintest brush of approval grace his lips, and my whole body glows with it.

But then his gaze drops. Travels down my body. Jasper pauses, and his expression empties entirely. As he turns his head, the light glances away from his face, casting it in cool shadows.

“Ah. You brought the workbook,” he says politely, his voice as glossy and smooth as ice spheres. “May I see it?”

I freeze, staring at him.

It happened so quickly, a blink could miss it. Warm to cold, caring to polite. Like he can just flick a switch and power himself down.

Uneasily, I search his face, looking for something in it to lean on—but it’s like he’s disappeared.

Jasper waits patiently, and new anxiety churns in my stomach as I pry my arms from around the book. There’s so much in there. So many private thoughts, so many fears. The workbook didn’t mince words, asking for recounts of events, associated feelings. It pushed for information about my past and childhood.

I look down at the book, my notepad on top, clutched between my sweaty palms, and I step back. Then again. I step back until my legs hit the armchair opposite him, and I sit down, watching him warily.

Ican’t. Not like this.

Jasper leans against the arm of the chair as he regards me, his fingers brushing his lips thoughtfully. “You don’t trust me.”

There’s no accusation in his words, but it’s not a question either. My fingers rub against the workbook. There’s a charge in the air, this low buzz of awareness that always lives in the quiet spaces between us.

Jasper and I spend so much time talking without words—as we measure, as we test.

But I’m not here to play chess with him today.

“Why do you do that? You turn so cold.” Something like surprise flickers over his face—a moment and it’s gone. So I press. “I don’t know what to expect from you, Jasper. How am I supposed to trust you when I have no idea what you’re thinking?”

The firelight flares in his dark eyes, then his eyelashes curtain the flames.

“What I’m thinking doesn’t matter.” He inclines his head. “We’re here for you.”

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