She’s Nervous

CHAPTER 51: SHE'S NERVOUS.

NOAH'S POV

The nightmare comes again, the same relentless images that chase me through the dark. I wake up with a start, breath heaving, sweat clinging to my skin. I guess my plans to move in might have brought it back again.

 My heart is heavy, the weight of something old and unshakable pressing against my ribs. I reach for the glass of water on the nightstand, drinking it down in quick gulps. The silence of the room is stifling, but I force myself to sit still, to let the remnants of the nightmare settle before checking my phone.

A message from Reeves.

  "Hey, so you are leaving today. I just wanted to remind you. Don't waste your time at the family house dealing only with that issue. Don't forget about our plans. And make sure you take good care of Rachel. She's not strong enough to face them alone."

I stare at the message for a few seconds longer than necessary before responding with a simple, "Thanks. I won’t forget the plan." I put the phone down.

With that, I push myself out of bed, heading for the shower. The cold water does little to clear my mind, but it’s routine, and I stick to it. It helps me calm down as usual.

 Once I’m dressed, I gather my packed belongings. Before leaving, I open a drawer and pull out a small, worn box. Inside, only one ring remains—the other is on Rachel’s finger. I close it without taking the ring out and just slip it into my pocket before heading out.

I didn't see the need for it before but now, it would be very important. 

Downstairs, Rachel stands by her luggage that is next to the window, her back to me, lost in thought. She wears a light yellow gown that fits her like a dream, the color making her skin glow under the soft morning light.

 The fabric clings just enough, teasing at her curves while maintaining an effortless grace. For a moment, I just watch her, my eyes tracing the way her shoulders rise and fall with each breath.

My grip tightens around the handle of my luggage. There’s something disarming about the way she looks. The way she carries herself despite everything. Maybe I am wrong? Maybe I overreacted? Maybe I...? Enough with the maybes. I swallow hard, my pulse quickening for reasons I refuse to acknowledge.

I should look away.

But I don’t.

I feel the urge to want to touch her. To run my fingers along the exposed skin of her arm, to feel her warmth against me. I had missed her, though I would never say it aloud. But in the end, reality pulls me back. I remind myself that things aren’t that simple, that women like her are dangerous in ways I know all too well. She is just the same as them.

There is no reason for her to like me and she is only here because she has no choice. She's going to leave very soon so there is no need pretending to be alright with everything.

A whisper of caution leaves my lips just as Marco appears with a knowing smile. “Ready to go?”

The sudden interruption jolts me from my thoughts. Rachel turns around at the sound, giving me a full view of her gown. My breath catches. 

Goddamn it. 

She looks absolutely stunning, effortless, like something out of a painting I’m afraid to touch. She smiles at me—soft, tentative, but genuine.

It shouldn’t affect me.

But it does.

I force my face to remain impassive as I hand Marco the house keys. “We’ll be back soon.”

   "Have a safe journey." 

   "Thanks."

We aren't going that far. It is probably an hour's journey maximum. 

We load our things into the car and slip into the backseat. The drive is quiet at first, filled only with the hum of the engine and the occasional sound of shifting luggage. Rachel starts eating some of the snacks Marco packed for us, and to my surprise, she offers me a bite.

I hesitate.

It’s just food. No big deal. But something about the way she looks at me makes it feel like more.

   "Have it,"

   "I don't want to..."

My stomach makes the sound, embarrassing me right in front of her. I watch as she struggles not to laugh or chortle. She bites her lips tightly and looks at me with innocent eyes.

I am raging beneath. Does she really think that this is funny?

   "My mouth says NO but your stomach says otherwise. You don't intend to starve all through this journey, do you?"

Not wanting to make things complicated or pull out another argument, I take a small bite. 

The taste is surprisingly good, but I stop after a few bites, setting the snack aside. Rachel, on the other hand, finishes hers, washing it down with a sip of water. My gaze flickers to her throat as she swallows, following the way a stray droplet escapes the corner of her lips and slides down the curve of her neck.

Something stirs inside me, something I shouldn’t be feeling. I roughly lick my lips and then I look away, my jaw clenching.

Twenty minutes later, she drifts off, her head nodding slightly before it tilts to the side. Just as she’s about to slump over, I move without thinking, shifting my shoulder beneath her head. She settles against me, her breathing evening out.

I shouldn’t stare. I shouldn’t even be thinking about touching her.

But I do.

My fingers twitch as I fight the urge to trace the soft curve of her cheek. Just a small touch. 

Just a small one, it won't hurt that much. She is asleep and less aware. A fleeting touch. My hand lifts slightly, hovering, hesitating—before I force it into a fist, nails pressing into my palm as I turn my head away and bite on my knuckles.

   "Get a grip on yourself, Noah."

I scold my mind.

When we’re nearly at the mansion, I nudge her awake. “We’re here.”

She blinks herself back to reality, then quickly straightens, adjusting her dress. 

   "Really?"

I do not answer.

   "Did I drool?" she asks, voice laced with sleep.

I nod solemnly. “Your face is a mess.”

Her eyes widen in horror as she frantically wipes at her mouth, making sure she hasn’t embarrassed herself. I watch, amused. Seeing her panic is unexpectedly entertaining. Maybe I should do this frequently, just to punish her for letting another man have access to those lips of hers. 

As we step out of the car, the weight of what’s ahead settles on me. I don’t need to look at Rachel to know she’s nervous—I can feel it. Her hands tremble slightly at her sides, her face flushed, eyes darting uncertainly toward the towering estate before us.

For a second—just a second—I want to take her hand, to squeeze it and reassure her.

But I don’t.

I can’t afford to. Not when I’m walking straight into the lion’s den, and she’s the one standing beside me, unarmed.