A Thousand Storms

08 wildfire

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*

Finally, the man obeyed, releasing his grip on me. I didn't wait, running as fast as I could in the opposite direction.

I collided with Mason, pushing him away as he gently caught hold of my arms.

I tried to get him off of me, because I didn't want to be touched—certainly not now, and certainly not by another male, but he was stubborn and pliant, allowing me to claw at him without retaliation.

"Blondie, I'm gonna need you to calm down and breathe for me," he said.

His eyes never left mine. Not for a second. It was unnerving and consoling at the same time.

Suddenly all I wanted to be against him and feel his warmth envelop around me. Shield me. Protect me.

No.

I gulped.

It even sounded wrong. Mason was not a permanent part of my life —whether I liked it or not, it was something I had to admit.

No one stayed for long, anyway.

He was more of a fresh addition—if one could even call it that. I didn't need anything from him— certainly not protection.

I couldn't allow myself to only feel safe in his presence.

Because what would I do when he wasn't there anymore?

I needed to protect myself. Shield myself.

And if I needed to protect myself from him, so be it.

I continued to fight against his hold —like he'd been the one to attack me, and not the other insane man.

Mason was calm and methodical. He reached for both my hands amongst the mess of my tantrum, and calmly brought them down to my sides.

"It's okay," Mason murmured. "Just count to three. Again, if you need to."

My heart leaked through its weak walls at the sound of his voice, at the touch of his fingertips.

One.

It was past the shock of the incident now. It was far more than that — and he knew it too. Everything about this, everything about Mason was reckless and confusing and wrong.

Two.

But it was so easy to give in. God, I sounded like some sort of drug addict. All I had to do was give in.

Three.

I succumbed.

I leaned against his chest, my tear-stained face dampening his shirt.

He didn't say a word — and if he did, I didn't hear him. I rolled up his shirt into my fist and let myself cry.

Again.

I hated it.

I hated crying in front of him — in front of anyone, for that matter.

It was a physical admission of weakness.

And I did not want to seem weak.

It was the homesickness and maybe that drink Caleb had given me and perhaps the continuation of that deep lonely feeling and then the pure terror that flooded my veins when the bottle collided with my teeth.

And it was him.

I was drawn to him.

Inexplicably.