Page 48 of Atone

A bad idea.

A red flag.

Dangerous.

Probably lethal, if the warnings I’ve been given have any merit.

“Why would I kick you out?” His tone mocks me.

This time I’m the one gritting my teeth.

I roll my shoulders, standing taller. I’m not short, but I’m still barely at his chin, so I have to crane my neck to fully look up at him.

“Why wouldn’t you kick me out? That’s what you’re good at, isn’t it? Shutting people down. Keeping quiet.” The ripple of tension in the air is thick, but I ignore it. “Last time I called you out on your shit, you picked me up and carried me out of your room. Here I am, sneaking around places I shouldn’t, figuring out your secret.”

“You think the fact that I can talk is my secret?” His lips tilt in dark amusement.

“One of them.” I narrow my gaze. “Enough to give you an excuse to throw me out of Sigma House for snooping. At least then you can hate me in peace.”

“Who said I hate you?”

“You don’t have to say it. It’s obvious with how you avoid me.” I wish it didn’t sting to say that out loud.

It takes all my composure to straighten my spine. Not to show weakness for this man when my words already hold enough hurt to make me vulnerable.

Alex leans forward, drifting his fingers up the edge of my long-sleeve shirt. His touch tickles my wrist through the fabric, burning a path until he reaches my shoulder. Mythroat tightens, and my chest buzzes with the faintest brush of his fingertips at my collarbone.

When he reaches my chin, he traces over my lower lip with such delicacy, his touch is almost a whisper.

“That’s why you think I avoid you?”

His question confuses me, especially considering that’s the only explanation.

“Yes.” My eyebrows pinch as I try not to crumble. “Why else would you avoid me like you have?”

His middle finger lingers on my mouth. I can almost taste him as I breathe him in.

Alex is every bit of oxygen in the room, and still, I can’t get enough of him.

“Because.” He pulls his hand back, denying me.

It’s not an answer to my question. And I think he won’t give me one until he grabs my jaw. He angles my head and steps closer, dipping his mouth to my temple, tickling my cheek with every exhale.

I grip the desk behind me as he presses me against it. But I don’t reach for him. I remember how that went at Montgomery, and I’m not ready for him to shut me down just yet.

One of his legs presses forward, nudging between mine, and like the mindless puppet I am for this man, I widen my knees to bring us closer.

He’s a disaster, and I’m ashes.

But god, do I need him.

Which must be why I find myself finally releasing the desk and daring to reach for the back of his hand. He doesn’t loosen his grip on my chin as I trace my fingers over the smooth, bumpy scars.

I want to figure him out.

This hot and cold.

This villain and safe space.