The Search For Dakota Thompson

Chapter 16:

We missed our bus to the hotel. We had managed to walk a hour to a small town in the middle of nowhere, without killing each other. The airport was roughly 2 hours away from Paris city centre.

I was fed-up. Extremely so.

"What's wrong with you?"

Bag in hand, the cold nipping at my fingers I felt my blood run cold at his voice. If he wouldn't have started arguing with the man at passport control, we wouldn't be in this situation.

It had been a silent walk for just over a hour, the earlier argument almost forgotten. But he had the audacity to speak to me like I'd just killed his dog. I snapped.

"What's wrong with me? You're always in a foul mood, that's what. It's like you hate everything! How do you expect people to deal with someone like that."

"I don't! You didn't have to get involved! If you'd just stayed in your room that night, non of this would have happened."

"Oh. So now it's my fault?! How about the second time? You stopped me. That was your choice!"

"Don't worry about it. I still regret it." Lykan snarled, walking ahead of me. His words took me by surprise, as did his voice. He almost sounded hurt. But it's Lykan, he wasn't hurt. He was simply being defensive.

Sick of his stupid games I walked toward a house on the far side of the road. "Cali-" Ignoring his calls, I pushed the doorbell. After a moment, the door was opened. I was met by a woman, middle aged, draped in a pink gown and slippers. Her eyes falling shut.
"Good evening. Je suis désolé de vous déranger." (I'm sorry to bother you).

"Its okay." English. I'm so grateful. My French was terrible. Her pronunciation was a little off but I wasn't concerned. I only knew a few phrases in French, so I was glad she understood.

"We're trying to get to Paris, but we're lost. Could you help us?" I asked. I felt bad for disturbing her, but I was sick of the cold, of carrying this bag, of this trip, of walking.

I was sick of Lykan.

I felt his presence behind me, his fingertips brushing my waist. His touch made me shiver, but I didn't turn. He acted irrationally, to no justifiable extent.

"Come. Have tea." The women offered, walking into her house, expecting us to follow. I did, Lykan reluctantly copied.

I looked behind to see his hand, previously trying to subtly get my attention, fall to his side. A perplexed expression on his face.

A few minutes of silence passed, the small cup wrapped within my cold hands. I looked over at Lykan. He didn't look right with such a small item in his rough hands. As if his touch alone would shatter the ceramic. His black leather jacket was wrapped around his shoulders; eyes heavy, expression blank. He was thinking, thoughts I wasn't sure I wanted to know about. Reflections of the fire-place painting images onto his face, while his eyes contrasted the warmth and colour emitted.

Without breaking his gaze from the flames he spoke softly, in a way that caught everyone's attention. That made you hang onto every word he said. And without thinking about it, that was the effect his voice had on me included. "What?"

"What?" I hummed. To this, he broke his gaze, looking to meet my eyes.

"Your staring." His chest rose and fell with every breath he took, not drastically, but enough to notice. Why was his breathing so heavy? I looked over his face, from his eyes down to his lips then turned away, "sorry."