Page 52 of Storm's Deliverance

“I’m not!” I snap.

His grin returns. “You blinked.”

“I did not blink,” I deny.

“You absolutely blinked.” He smirks.

I did. The traitorous twat noticed. Again.

His hands settle on either side of the counter behind me, not touching or trapping me, but somehow it feels worse. “I see the way you look at me.” His voice drops lower. Softer. Rougher. “I see the way your eyes follow me when you think I’m not paying attention.” Heat floods my cheeks.

“I do not—” I begin to protest.

“You do.” His head dips slightly as the corner of his mouth lifts. “And I definitely catch you staring at my ass.” My mouth falls open. His grin turns victorious. “Thought so.”

I want to kill him. Actually kill him. Possibly with the syrup bottle. “You are fucking insufferable.”

“And yet here you are, still here before me, in my apartment.” His eyes flicker over my face. Lingering. Warm. Affectionate. Far too affectionate.

My heart betrays me completely. “I don’t want to fuck you,” I announce. Each word is deliberate and careful. Final. “I. Don’t. Want. To. Fuck. You.”

Silence. A beat passes, then another as Drix studies me. Then he laughs.

Not a chuckle. Not a smirk. A full-bodied laugh. The kind that makes his shoulders shake.

“Oh, that’s adorable.”

I glare. “Excuse me?”

“That’s your tell,” he gestures.

“My what?” I furrow my brows

“Whenever you’re lying, you get extra dramatic.”

My jaw drops. “I am not fucking dramatic.”

He laughs harder. The audacity! The absolute nerve.

“Drix.”

“BB.”

“Drix.”

“BB.”

I point a fork at him. “Unless you want my knee introducing itself to your balls, step away from me and let me eat my breakfast.”

His laughter finally dies down. Though the amusement remains dancing in those stupid blue eyes. “There’s my girl.”

Something unexpectedly warm settles in my chest. He sees it immediately. Of course he does. He seems to notice everything.

“Fuck,” he murmurs with a grin. “It’s good to have some of you back.”

Before I can think of a comeback, he winks and returns to his stool, and just like that, the moment is over.

However, the warmth remains, because he’s right. For the first time in months, I feel like myself. Not who Zeke needed me to be, and not who the trauma turned me into. Me. Messy, stubborn, mouthy, and impossible. Me.