Of Frost & Cinder (Old Version)

Brave

Chapter Four:

When I step out of the car, the guy on my front porch jumps down the three steps to the lawn. His boots glide across the white powder until they plant firmly six feet from the curb—exactly six feet from where I am hiding behind the shield of my open door.

My skates glimmer under the daylight as I peel off one of the blade guards and shove it in the driver's seat.

With a quick breath, I shut the door and inch around the car, keeping a close enough distance between the door and I, in case I need to haul ass.

He's a statue in the yard, like a panther waiting for its prey to run.

His hair is blowing in the chilled breeze, and when he shifts to tuck it behind his ear, I blurt—

"Were you following me?"

His dark brows crinkle for a split second, only to smooth out with a quiver of a smile. "Yes."

His reply is so calm that it chills my bones. Why? Is this some infatuated freak that pinpointed me in the café, or has he been following me longer than I dare to ask?

I tighten my grip on the white skates at my side, "You obsessed with me or something?"

His face hardens in point-two-seconds flat. "Don't flatter yourself."

It's my turn to frown. I didn't realize that being a target was considered a form of flattery.

"Are you planning on murdering me?"

He snorts, "Are we going to yell across your yard all day?"

His harsh cutting voice sparks a strange sensation, one that I refuse to place because the answer doesn't make sense. His voice is...familiar.

With a deep breath of forced reassurance, I shift around the front of the car, and do my best to move towards the house as inconspicuously as possible.

His sudden burst of laughter jolts me frozen.

"What, were you gonna cut me and hide?" He snorts; eyeing the one exposed blade my knuckles are whitening around. "You're insane, you know that?"

I give the guy that trailed me home a harsh glare. I'm insane?

"Do I know you?" The words come out like venom, but at this point, I don't care. Who is he, and why the hell is he standing in my front yard?

His brows push down; narrowing his eyes into slits to scrutinize me for a long second. The look isn't hard, or frightening even. If anything, he seems confused.

Before I can follow what's happening, he takes three strides and closes in the space between us, and then his large hands envelope my head. His mouth is hovering inches from my forehead and a shiver rattles my spine when it descends.

Inside, my mind is screaming all the ways to knock him out, all the ways my dad taught me to defend myself, but as much as I should be struggling, and as hard as I should be fighting, I'm frozen. I can't move, can't breathe without inhaling him—without drowning in the rush of wood and dirt and snow.

When his nose buries deep into the curve of my neck, I am overwhelmed by the shock of my tingling skin.

His body is so incredibly warm.

Part of me wants to melt into him, to submit to whatever obscure emotion we're sharing, but then his nose brushes against my skin and when he inhales sharply, I snap.

With a ripple of fear, I struggle out of his grip, blindly slashing my skate as I step away.

He lurches back with a gasp, when my blade makes contact and I don't stop to register where.