aloud. It seems every time he’s a thought, it brings him near.
“But then I woke up in this strange, warm place,” Luke continues. “It was soft and full of smells I remembered from being a kid, fresh corn cakes cooling and pinecones burning in the hearth.”
He leans closer and reaches out, slow, tentative. His fingers trail to mine and I watch them touch with wide eyes. I can’t move. I can’t think. I don’t want to breathe. An ache fills my chest, twisting and fighting it’s way up my throat, as he takes my hand in his.
“You sat there, in that horrid chair, beside me, asleep,” he says. “Tears shimmered on your cheeks. I saw you crying and was worried—I didn’t know you were caught in a dream—I touched you and you jerked away, you screamed. You almost put me in my grave, I was so scared.”
It’s strange and frightening to think he saw me so vulnerable. I don’t know what to say, what to think.
“Suddenly you were the witch,” he says. “You were power and rage, your shoulders straight, and your eyes bright enough to burn right through me. But it was different than when you found me. You were so beautiful, so small and feminine. It was hard to understand anyone being frightened of you. But I was. I was terrified. I was afraid you’d seduce me and leave me to die.” He looks down at his hand, wrapped around mine. His thumb brushes against my palm as he hesitates, like he wants to say more but he’s not sure. Then his eyes meet mine and he says words I couldn’t have imagined him saying to me, not ever, “I wanted you in that moment, Rose. I wanted you unlike I’ve wanted a girl—a woman—ever. And it terrified me.”
My heart crashes against my ribs. My fingers go hot from his touch. His story echoes Hunt’s words: “ You tease me with those light blue eyes, like winter frost. They haunt me…just let me have it. I need it.”
Oh, God, help me. Will I always be the Ice Witch? The girl who draws men into madness.
I stare at Luke. Waves of shock course through me, knowing how he’s seen me this whole time. How I never knew...
...he wanted to touch me.
He’s nothing like Hunt. Not in any way.
But he’s a man.
What’s he thinking now? Is he holding my hand, thinking of—
“I shouldn’t have told you,” he says, searching my face. His brow creases with worry. He pulls his hand from mine in the same slow way he took hold of it.
I shake my head and scramble to my feet. I need to get away, from him, from my feelings for him. My longing to feel his hands on my skin, to have his smells overwhelm me again.
But it’s all impossible. It’s all too terrifying.
Luke stands and reaches for me.
I jerk away and stumble back. “No.”
“Rose,” he says, like a moan.
I know that I’m hurting him, that my reaction will make him think all the wrong things about how I feel—how I wish he’d have kissed me instead of saying those words—but all I can seem to do is move farther away.
“Why?” I ask suddenly.
His brow pinches over his nose and he shakes his head. “Why what, Rose?”
“Why are you telling me this now?” Tears rise into my throat, choking me. “We were happy. It was all getting better. And Becca. You’re supposed to love her. You can’t want me. I—” But I don’t finish. I can’t see his face and say what I was going to say. I can’t let him know the truth of what I feel for him.
We stare at each other, across a million miles of pain and horror.
Too late. It’s too late.
I turn and run. The sound of him calling my name echoes off the mountain, following me into the trees.
*
I stay out in the forest for several hours before I take the path back to the shack.
Becca waddles into the doorway, holding her swollen belly and immediately starts scolding me. “What were you thinking? Luke’s worried sick! He went out looking for you.” Accusation rings clear in her voice. Even though she doesn’t say it, I hear it in her words: It’ll be
“But then I woke up in this strange, warm place,” Luke continues. “It was soft and full of smells I remembered from being a kid, fresh corn cakes cooling and pinecones burning in the hearth.”
He leans closer and reaches out, slow, tentative. His fingers trail to mine and I watch them touch with wide eyes. I can’t move. I can’t think. I don’t want to breathe. An ache fills my chest, twisting and fighting it’s way up my throat, as he takes my hand in his.
“You sat there, in that horrid chair, beside me, asleep,” he says. “Tears shimmered on your cheeks. I saw you crying and was worried—I didn’t know you were caught in a dream—I touched you and you jerked away, you screamed. You almost put me in my grave, I was so scared.”
It’s strange and frightening to think he saw me so vulnerable. I don’t know what to say, what to think.
“Suddenly you were the witch,” he says. “You were power and rage, your shoulders straight, and your eyes bright enough to burn right through me. But it was different than when you found me. You were so beautiful, so small and feminine. It was hard to understand anyone being frightened of you. But I was. I was terrified. I was afraid you’d seduce me and leave me to die.” He looks down at his hand, wrapped around mine. His thumb brushes against my palm as he hesitates, like he wants to say more but he’s not sure. Then his eyes meet mine and he says words I couldn’t have imagined him saying to me, not ever, “I wanted you in that moment, Rose. I wanted you unlike I’ve wanted a girl—a woman—ever. And it terrified me.”
My heart crashes against my ribs. My fingers go hot from his touch. His story echoes Hunt’s words: “ You tease me with those light blue eyes, like winter frost. They haunt me…just let me have it. I need it.”
Oh, God, help me. Will I always be the Ice Witch? The girl who draws men into madness.
I stare at Luke. Waves of shock course through me, knowing how he’s seen me this whole time. How I never knew...
...he wanted to touch me.
He’s nothing like Hunt. Not in any way.
But he’s a man.
What’s he thinking now? Is he holding my hand, thinking of—
“I shouldn’t have told you,” he says, searching my face. His brow creases with worry. He pulls his hand from mine in the same slow way he took hold of it.
I shake my head and scramble to my feet. I need to get away, from him, from my feelings for him. My longing to feel his hands on my skin, to have his smells overwhelm me again.
But it’s all impossible. It’s all too terrifying.
Luke stands and reaches for me.
I jerk away and stumble back. “No.”
“Rose,” he says, like a moan.
I know that I’m hurting him, that my reaction will make him think all the wrong things about how I feel—how I wish he’d have kissed me instead of saying those words—but all I can seem to do is move farther away.
“Why?” I ask suddenly.
His brow pinches over his nose and he shakes his head. “Why what, Rose?”
“Why are you telling me this now?” Tears rise into my throat, choking me. “We were happy. It was all getting better. And Becca. You’re supposed to love her. You can’t want me. I—” But I don’t finish. I can’t see his face and say what I was going to say. I can’t let him know the truth of what I feel for him.
We stare at each other, across a million miles of pain and horror.
Too late. It’s too late.
I turn and run. The sound of him calling my name echoes off the mountain, following me into the trees.
*
I stay out in the forest for several hours before I take the path back to the shack.
Becca waddles into the doorway, holding her swollen belly and immediately starts scolding me. “What were you thinking? Luke’s worried sick! He went out looking for you.” Accusation rings clear in her voice. Even though she doesn’t say it, I hear it in her words: It’ll be