Page 7 of Burning Daylight

Alex:

Yeah…like getting shanked by a Montgomery goon.

I spin so my back faces the cliff and Rosebrook Falls sprawls behind me, then snap a picture of me flipping them off with a sarcastic grin.

After I pocket my phone, I stroll to the rock, climbing on and twisting until I’m lying with my legs above my head, my spine pressed to the stone. My heart flutters as I lean back, my hair blowing in the breeze at the cliff’s edge. Adrenaline kicks in, just enough to feel that soaring, reckless rush, and I close my eyes, breathing in the scent of red birch trees that are so Connecticut-coded, it makes my chest ache.

A twig snaps from somewhere behind me, and my stomach jumps into my throat. I squeeze my eyes tighter, hoping it isn’t a coyote or a bear.

I swear, if I die up here and prove Paxton right, I’ll come back and haunt this place forever.

“Lance?” I call out hopefully.

There’s no reply.

A few seconds, and then there’s another noise.

Footsteps, I realize.

I jerk too fast, trying to scramble off the rock, but instead of sitting upright, I slip entirely.

Air punches out of my mouth as my body slides, and my fingers claw at the smooth boulder, but there’s nothing to grip onto. A scream tears from my mouth as my legs flip over my head, nails breaking against stone as I try to find something—anything—to grab ahold of.

Suddenly, something clutches my arm, yanking me back.

I crash onto the ground hard, breath knocked forcefully from my lungs.

My eyes are squeezed shut, and my heart pounds in my ears, so it takes a second to realize the earth isn’t as solid as it should be.

And that it’sbreathing.

It’s warm, and malleable, and—my lids fly open—definitely a person.

Our eyes meet, my chestnut browns locked on icy blues.

2

JULIETTE

It’s a guy.

His body is all hard lines; lithe, lean muscles that are taut beneath me, and thick fingers that dig into my waist, making it impossible to tell if he’s about to pull me closer or push me away.

I shift without thinking, and he grunts. It’s a low, raspy noise that sends a flare of heat through me. I jolt back, my hands scraping the gravel as I scramble to my feet. My heart slams against my chest, and I blink down at him.

He’s sprawled on the ground, and where I’m sure I look like a deer in headlights, he looks suave.

Relaxed.

Like nothing in the world could bother him.

A lock of brown hair—so dark it almost looks black—falls across his forehead, and he brushes it out of his eyes. A tattoo winds from his veiny hand up over his wrist, disappearing beneath the sleeve of his blue hoodie, the black ink stark against his pale skin.

Heat slams into me, flaring through every nerve ending like I’ve been electrocuted.

He’s hot.

Of course he is.