Eliott's words, his silent assertion of a right she hadn't granted, echoed in Maëlys's mind long after he had left her doorstep. He was a force, an undeniable presence that chipped away at her carefully constructed solitude. She hated the way he saw through her, the way his direct questions left her exposed. Yet, she found herself replaying his visit, the feel of his gaze, the dangerous thrill of his proximity.
The next few days were a strange dance. Maëlys found herself unconsciously aware of Eliott's presence in the small town. She'd spot his dark truck parked near the central square, or catch a glimpse of his tattooed arms through the window of a local café. He wasn't overtly following her, but he was there, a constant, subtle hum in the background of her quiet life. It felt less like stalking and more like an unavoidable magnetic pull, a natural alignment she desperately wanted to fight.
One afternoon, while restocking her meager pantry, Maëlys found herself reaching for the last box of a specific, obscure tea. Just as her fingers brushed the cardboard, another hand closed over it. Large, warm, and undeniably familiar.
Eliott.
He was closer than she'd anticipated, his scent — that intoxicating mix of ink and something rugged — wrapping around her. Their fingers brushed, sending a jolt up her arm. Maëlys snatched her hand back as if burned, her breath catching in her throat.
"Fancy meeting you here, little bird," he murmured, his voice a low, teasing drawl that sent shivers down her spine. He didn't let go of the tea box, his eyes, dark and stormy, fixed on hers. A possessive glint flickered in their depths.
"It's a grocery store," she retorted, trying to steady her racing heart. "People come here."
"Indeed. But not everyone has a look that screams 'I'm trying desperately to forget someone'," he countered, his smile not quite reaching his eyes. He slowly pushed the tea box towards her. "You want it?"
Maëlys hesitated. The tea, with its bitter, nostalgic taste, had triggered a painful flashback before. But letting go now felt like surrendering. "Yes," she managed, her voice barely a whisper.
He released the box, but his gaze didn't waver. "Something tells me you like things that challenge you," he said, his voice dropping, laced with an undeniable heat. "Things that hurt a little, maybe, but leave a lasting mark."
The words hung in the air, charged with double meaning. He wasn't talking about tea anymore. He was talking about them, about the dangerous game they were playing, the painful truth hidden beneath her amnesia, and the undeniable pull between them. Maëlys felt a blush creep up her neck, a fierce heat igniting in her belly.
"You don't know anything about me," she whispered, though the conviction in her voice was weakening.
Eliott leaned closer, his body subtly blocking her escape route down the aisle. His arm brushed hers, a searing contact that made her skin tingle. "Oh, but I think I do," he murmured, his voice now a low, predatory purr that vibrated deep within her. "I think I know exactly the kind of fire you hide under all that ice, Maëlys." His gaze dropped to her lips, lingered there for a long, agonizing moment, then returned to her eyes, blazing with an unspoken promise. "And I'm very good at melting ice."
The air crackled between them, thick with unacknowledged desire. Maëlys felt a terrifying urge to step into his space, to feel his touch, to let him strip away every last defense she had. He was danger, distilled and potent, and she was, against every fiber of her being, undeniably drawn to it. Her rules were blurring, eroding under the sheer force of his will, under the undeniable, raw tension that now existed between them. She was a repellent, pushing away connection. He was a magnet, drawing her in, slowly, irrevocably, into his orbit. And the terrifying part was, she was starting to like it.