Page 46 of The Darkest Chase

Without a word, she reaches up to take the mug in both hands. Her slender fingers curl against mine.

For an instant, we’re connected.

Our fingers are so close, the heat of the mug fusing us together.

Her skin feels like silk on mine, lingering with a tension so thick you can taste it.

Her heart is in her eyes.

I don’t know how to read it or what this feeling is stirring inside me.

I wasn’t expecting this shit.

Not when I only just tripped over this girl this past week.

Not when I’m so close to kicking down doors that have been sealed off for years.

I’m this close to the Arrendells’ secrets.

Talia’s a distraction.

This pure pink doll, just begging to get her dirty.

If I don’t keep my mind on track, I’m going to piss away years of work just to have a taste of her.

So the moment I’m certain she’s got a proper grip on the mug, I let go and step back, reclaiming my seat on my log.

“Eat up,” I say tersely, rummaging in my pack for the small bag of freeze-dried meat kibble I brought for Rolf. He’s heading over the second he hears the bag rustle, still shaking himself dry from the water. “We need to get moving again. The site we’re staking is still a few more miles upstream.”

Talia only answers with a wordless murmur.

Does this crackling energy between us disturb her as much as it does me?

I fold a large green leaf into a makeshift bowl for Rolf and leave him scarfing his kibble while I tuck into my own lunch.

We use the flatbread as pita pockets, pouring the chili and vegetables inside. Easy, quick, and filling.

Though Talia dribbles down her chin every few bites before catching it and wiping her face off, all delicate manners even out here in the wilderness.

I try to keep myself from laughing.

I don’t know how any grown-ass woman can be so adorable.

Once we’re done, I douse the fire with creek water, then rub Rolf down with a towel from my pack before packing up, clipping his leash back onto his harness, and setting back out.

Talia’s quieter as we hit the trail again.

She doesn’t seem upset, just thoughtful, looking around and occasionally smiling as she sees a hawk soaring against the sun or turns her head to track a chipmunk bounding through tree roots.

She doesn’t complain, not even when I can tell she’s starting to get tired. I admit I’m keeping a close eye on her breathing, too, but I don’t ask about her asthma.

I know what it’s like having people smother you with concern, and I won’t do that.

It doesn’t seem like it’s triggered too much by physical exertion, though. Mostly by distress.

Which just adds another pebble on the scale of guilt for what I could end up putting her through.

She’s clearly flagging by the time we reach the campsite I scoped out a few days ago.