NOLA
The night air is thick with the scent of crushed pine and the metallic tang of the storm that’s been brewing in Rhett’s chest all evening, and as I hang there, pinned between the rough bark of the oak tree and the sheer, immovable weight of his body, I feel like the world I knew has finally shattered beyond repair, my breath is coming in short, ragged gasps, my heart drumming a frantic rhythm against his ribs as his amber eyes search mine, looking for a fear that I can’t quite find, because all I feel is this terrifying, magnetic pull toward the very man who has been lying to me since I was in diapers.
“Twenty-three years,” I whisper, the words tasting like ash in my mouth as I look at the sharp, dangerous angles of his face in the moonlight, “You’ve been watching me my whole life,
