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Marc was laughing, a loud, expansive sound that took up all the oxygen in the small kitchen, while Sylvie’s hand stayed exactly where I’d left it.
I watched the way you looked at the carbon steel, not with fear, but with a terrifyingly precise sort of hunger.
His thumb pressed into the nerve bundle at the base of my skull, and for a second, the world went white-out.
The wind outside was screaming like a downed elk, but inside, the only sound was the heavy, rhythmic thud of Julian’s heart against my ear.
He had her pinned against the cool, damp concrete of the fermentation vat, the smell of yeast and heavy fruit thick enough to choke on.
I watched the tendon in your neck pull tight when you laughed, a high-tension wire vibrating in the dark of the sleeper car.
The rain was hitting the roof like a bag of brass falling on concrete, and there was Chloe, looking entirely too steady for a woman who’d just downed three double-espressos.
The way your thumb traced the rim of your glass had the same heavy, rhythmic intent as a man cleaning a sidearm.
The smell of the cedar sauna is still stuck in the back of my throat, thick as woodsmoke and just as blinding.
Nico leaned in, smelling of expensive bourbon and bad intentions, while Elena watched us with the predatory stillness of a cat near a birdbath.
The bass from the main stage was a physical pressure in my chest, a rhythmic reminder that I was wasting my pulse.
I watched your throat work as you swallowed that lie, the tendon jumping under your skin like a trapped bird.