Page 90 of Hunted

I made it all the way through undressing, packing, and stepping into the ankle-length, split-hemmed gown, before realising I wasn’t capable of doing it up on my own. Before I could so much as think about asking for help, the now-familiar scent of citrus and sandalwood drifted into the changeroom, cocooning me in their oddly comforting notes.

Warm fingers lingered against the bare skin at the base of my spine. Despite their heat, a chill raced down it, spurred on by those very same fingertips sliding tortuously slowly upwards as Beckett dragged the zipper closed.

My breath came in short, staccato bursts, and my freshly smooth thighs snapped together when he dared brush my hair over one shoulder, exposing the base of my neck and the goosebumps beneath.

His soft chuckle danced across my skin, and it took every ounce of my resolve not to turn around right then and there. Instead, I speared him with my gaze in the mirror—my hardy resolve vanishing when he whispered, “Red is most definitely your colour, Ice.”

I whirled so fast the satin fabric tangled around my ankles. But I didn’t give a flying fuck as I stared up into the luminous gaze of my newly assigned handler—hoping he’d handle me in entirely inappropriate ways.

Beck brushed the back of his fingers lightly over my cheek, letting them wind beneath the waves to rest at the base of my skull. He unwittingly tested every iota of self-control I still possessed—of which there weren’t many.

War played out across his features; compelling in a way that no man had any right to be. His eyes darkened to glistening gems, his irises flitting between both of mine and down to my cherry-red lips. With his mask temporarily removed, everything from indecision to anxiety to hunger flickered over his face, and I held my breath, wondering which would settle in.

I was lost in a sea of emerald and ruby, of downlights and sheer curtains, and I didn’t know which way was up.

I didn’t care to find out.

As far as my body was concerned, I was drowning, and if Beckett didn’t choose—to either give in or withdraw—I feared I would perish.

In the end, I couldn’t bear the weight of either decision—or of what either would mean. Instead of placing the trajectory of my life in his hands—in the Academy’s hands—I decided to choose for myself. If my body was doomed to become Blackwing’s pawn, I wasn’t about to let them have my soul, too.

With Beckett still hovering on the threshold of indecision, I stretched up onto my toes and made the decision for him. Gripping the front of his shirt, I tugged him down towards me. He moved instinctively—like his body was water, malleable by my touch.

And then I kissed him.

When our lips met, fear exploded outwards like every single one of my veins turned to ice water. Like the ice bucket alarm clock had been sent via infusion.

Beckett froze too—like my kiss paralysed him.

What the fuck did I just do?

I pulled back, only managing to withdraw an inch before his fingers—still twined in my hair at the base of my skull—reeled me back in.

And when he kissed me, I realised I’d been wrong.

I wouldn’t have perished without his touch… No. I would burn with it.

His kiss was the symphony my heart hadn’t known it’d been missing—and now that it knew, it would never be the same. His kiss contained notes to a song my body yearned to play; his desire, a sonata calling to my soul.

I lost myself to it. Fully. Completely. Hours could have passed, and it would not have been long enough in his arms. Our bodies could have fused together, and still, it would not have been close enough.

Is this what it feels like? To surrender? To lose?

Because if so, then consider me a fallen soldier.

Hunter Beckett had reduced me to ash.

And I was all the better for it.

[ 31 ]

BECK

JORDAN RAWSON – DREAMING OF YOU

Holy fucking shit, what the fuck am I doing?

Adelaide is my asset. I’m her fucking handler. I have to send her out into the arms of other, dangerous men in a matter of days, and here I am fucking losing myself in her.