VII HALF AS BRIGHT （ELLE）

VII

HALF AS brIGHT

(ELLE)

I haven't seen August for three days.

From the whirlwind way he swept me up shopping that first day, I thought the press conference was so urgent it would happen the day after at the latest.

But after his sister, Debra—a force of nature in her own right—slapped the lawsuit news on him, I didn't even get the grand office tour he promised.

Instead, I got to see August Marshall in all his workaholic glory.

I thought he was sharp before.

But he was like a living weapon then, launching himself into reading all the papers Debra threw at him. On the phone, stealing his sister's laptop to fire off emails like a human Gatling gun, barking sharp words with this fierceness that told me if his sister is a force of nature, this man is more.

August is an angry god.

It was all there. That intense energy I felt caged inside him, bursting to get out. Directed entirely at this new problem, this threat.

The tailored suits and creased slacks are a total front for a warrior general scowling with determination.

Somehow, the angrier and bossier he gets, the more raw emotion carves his face.

Handsome lines and power ripple like live currents in the tense lines of his body as he assesses, drives battle decisions in a split second, and gathers his assets to draw blood in the most lethal, efficient way possible.

A little awe inspiring, if I'm being honest.

It's also made me realize just how little I'll ever fit into his high-stakes world.

This sham engagement really is a side game to him, and I'm sure it'll be the biggest relief when it's over.

Heck, I don't think he even noticed when I left, after Debra remembered I was there and apologized, smiled, and called Rick to drive me home.

I'm not a part of August's real life.

I'm a freaking prop with some awesome benefits.

Even when I went off alone to get the dress adjusted, Angelique didn't bat an eye over the fact that he wasn't with me.

Typical rich guy's woman stuff in an atypical rich guy's world.

So, why the hell haven't I been able to stop thinking about him for even a second?

"You're moping, dear," Gran says from across the dining room table.

"I promise you I'm not, Gran," I lie firmly.

I look up from the puzzle piece I've been turning over in my hand, pondering it without really seeing it, then offer it to her.

She's putting together a thousand-piece puzzle of blooming hollyhocks. It's one of the many things that keep her busy so she doesn't go stir crazy from not being able to spend as much time outdoors with her plants.

"Eleanor Lark. Haven't I known you since the day they cut your umbilical cord?" She gives me a knowing look over the rims of her glasses, then plucks the puzzle piece from my fingers. "Stop moping and call that grumbly young man right this instant."

As if.

I refuse to look at her.

I only have August's number because Debra hastily tucked his business card in my pocket before I was ushered out the door that fateful day.

"Let's say I do. I pick up the phone, I call, I pester him, and what then?" I prop my chin in my hands, waiting for her wisdom. "Say, ‘Hey, casual business partner paying me to be his fake fiancée, missed you really hard. You're kinda weird and grumpy, but I have a lot of fun poking you. Wanna talk for no reason at all?'"

She gives me the patient look only saintly grandmothers can, then inspects the bright-pink puzzle piece and sets it aside in a pile of other pink pieces.

"That's a sensible start. It's honest." She picks up a green-and-yellow piece, studying it a bit too deliberately. "He is a handsome young man, you know."

Holy hell, I can't.

I stick my tongue out.

I know what she's trying to suggest, but it's not going to work.

"Did you miss the part where he's not the least bit interested in me, Gran?"

"Ever the pessimist! What makes you so sure of that, Elle?" She smiles with mock innocence and works the piece in. She's making her way from the outside toward the center, the border already assembled in a rectangle.

My jaw drops.

I try to dredge up an answer, but the words won't come.

She's got me good.

"Some men don't always say what they mean, dear. Many boys can barely read their own feelings."

I snort. "Well, he's made his pretty clear. Honestly, I wonder if he likes women at all ..."

Grandma was reaching for another piece—but now she freezes, blinking at me. "Oh. Oh, I see. So it's that kind of situation."

"No!" I hiss back immediately. "I'm not his companion beard."

That much, I'm sure of.

So maybe I'm exaggerating, and I know it.

He may not like me as a person, but I'm still a woman, and August Marshall isn't dead.

He's just the next best thing—entirely wedded to his work, far too busy with his demanding empires to cast a longing look at the army of supermodels fawning over Mr. Eligible. Let alone boring old me.

Chewing my inner cheek, I eye my amused grandmother sourly.

God, I'm so confused.

It's like being his fake fiancée has turned me into a mini version of August today. All grumps and glares and sad thoughts.

Gran's teasing isn't helping, either, but I guess I really am her granddaughter, since I enjoy messing with him like this far too much.

"I think he was married once," I continue, reaching for one of her unsorted pieces. It's dark green with yellow speckles. Part of the background, I think, where the little yellow flowers create a backdrop for the hollyhocks. I sort it into the right pile for her and sigh deeply. "I think the headlines were calling him a ‘black widow' or something. I don't know. I just don't think he has any use for a woman in his life right now, practical purposes aside. Especially not me."

"People aren't made to be used, dearest heart. Women, like men, are made to enjoy," Grandma says firmly. "Frankly, I can't imagine any man who wouldn't cherish your company."

"You haven't met this guy, Gran." I cough. "I mean, you have, but you haven't spent enough time around him." I shrug. "If he wanted to talk to me, he'd have called me."

"Does he have your number?" Grandma quirks a brow and fits in another puzzle piece.

I blink, sit up straighter, and replay the entire chaotic morning in my memory.

Showing up at my door, whisking me off for a shopping spree, talking in the back of the car.

Oh, plus the way he looked at me and made my stomach go weird with butterflies when I walked out in that dress, went into his office, and met his sister, and then she gave me his number, but I never gave either of them mine.

Ugh.

I smack my hand against my face—then yelp when my forehead stings. "Ow!"

"I take it that's a no," Grandma says wryly.

"It didn't come up, okay?" I rub my forehead. "I have his number but never got around to giving him mine."

"You should correct that, hm?"

"He still won't want to talk to me."

"Eleanor Jacqueline Lark." There it is. Not just my full name—which I share with her—but that grandma look over her glasses. Her mouth compresses. "Since when are you afraid to go after what you want? Regardless of the complexities or this man's history, you like him, don't you? You're attracted to him?"

Annoyingly attracted. Ready to keel right over on the spot.

"I ..." It's mortifying to admit it out loud. But I can't lie to Gran, especially not when she looks at me that way. "Maybe. Maybe, Gran. As much as you can like a guy when you barely know him. I mean, I get on his nerves, but it just makes me want to do it more because the way he grumps is so cute."

With a satisfied smile, she nods. "Go on."

"Like that one morning I spent with him. It was more fun than I've had in forever. And even if he is kind of a surly a-hole, he's honestly a decent guy. He thinks about things other people don't, and he just—he helps people like it's the most natural thing ever, and then he calls it ‘practical.' That tells me he's someone worth getting to know. Never mind the weird way we met."

"Hmm." Grandma's smile is pleased, almost secretive. "I do wonder if he's able to see himself the way you do."

I frown, tilting my head. "I don't know? I'm not sure what that means, honestly. Like, you think he doesn't realize he's actually a good guy behind all the roughness?"

She nods heavily. "The good ones rarely do, dear. Those are the men who do what's right because it's in their nature. Not because they want a reward or a nice pat on the head."

"Oh yeah. I get it." And I can't help how I smile, thinking of all the little things August did in just two days. "Yeah, I think that's him."

"Call him," Grandma insists.

I wrinkle my nose at her. "I'll text him."

She sighs deeply. "You kids these days with your texts and tweets and Tic Tacs and toots."

"... I don't think Tic Tacs or toots are a thing, Gran."

Laughing, I shake my head and lift up in my chair to wriggle my phone out of my jeans. I have August's number saved in my phone under J.

Jet Daddy, of course.

I stall for a second, flipping through Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, and TikTok. I want to delete my notifications in one quick swipe.

The onslaught has slowed down a bit, but it's still more than any sane person can keep up with. I've given up on trying to read any of them. Half of them are pretty nasty anyway. I also haven't posted anything in ages and have no desire, when it'll just open me up to more criticisms from the worldwide peanut gallery.

Plus, some of the things they've hinted about August ...

I know, I know.

I said I wouldn't pry—and I mean it.

But the curiosity eats me alive, and reading those cryptic messages implying something bad is going to happen to me because of him?

I might not be able to resist forever.

Right now, though, I can't stall any longer.

My notifications are cleared, no new emails, and just one text from Lena promising she'll stop by after work tonight with takeout so we can watch a movie over Thai kebabs. Just like when we were kids and we had to keep it down and not scream at the scary movies so we wouldn't wake up Gran.

Some things never change.

Weird how my life has come full circle while also turning into something insanely different.

I pull up his name and number, then tap a new text into that fresh, empty message window.

Hey. It's Elle. It just hit me that I have your number, but you don't have mine.

I'm expecting to get ignored.

So I set my phone down and reach for the unsorted puzzle pieces again, but I've barely picked one up before my phone vibrates, and my heart jumps.

Oh God, oh God.

Why are my palms sweating? Why am I snatching my phone up so quickly? Why is Gran looking at me like—

Okay, I know why she's looking at me that way.

I scrunch my nose at her knowing little smile, then read the new text.

Jet Daddy: Useful. Thanks.

I let out a deep, dramatic groan, rolling my eyes and throwing my head back before thrusting my phone at Grandma.

"See? See?"

"He's being polite and responding directly," she retorts blandly. "If you want to talk about something else, say something interesting, girl."

"You are the worst dating coach ever."

"Considering the two of you skipped past dating and went straight to marriage ..."

"It's fake! And I shouldn't be trying to figure out how to get my fiancé to notice me!"

Grandma chuckles, still patiently setting out her puzzle pieces. "Be yourself. The rest will happen naturally."

"Thanks, Jack Handey," I mutter, staring down at my phone.

What am I supposed to say to a brick wall?

Hey, are we still supposed to do that press conference thing? It sounded pretty urgent but then you fell off the map,I send.

Jet Daddy: Distractions of the legal kind. The conference is scheduled for tomorrow, even if it is less of a conference and more of a meet.

Oof. His texts are just as formal and no nonsense as the way he talks.

I'm not smiling at it.

I'm not.

Elle: So when were you going to tell me so I could get ready?

Jet Daddy: I would have arrived early enough to pick you up so you'd have time to get dressed. Unless you need help with that too.

Dead.

His response hacks me down to a nub.

Somehow, my fingers keep typing.

Elle: Um. I still would've appreciated a note beforehand. A carrier pigeon. An Inkygram. Whatever.

Inkygram? Hmm.

That gives me an idea, something small teasing at the back of my mind, percolating and waiting for me to figure out what it is. But I'm too distracted by August's answer to think too deeply.

Jet Daddy: Obviously, I didn't have your number.

Elle: Ha ha ha.

Jet Daddy: Did I say something funny?

Of course he didn't.

"You're smiling," Gran points out. "Is he wagging his tail now like a good boy who's happy to see you?"

"Gran, he's not a dog." I laugh. "I don't know why I think it's so cute anyway."

So what's going on with the lawsuit?I text. Why the hell would anyone sue Little Key?

Jet Daddy: I'm heading to a meeting. I'll pick you up tomorrow at 7:30 sharp.

Nice nonanswer.

I wrinkle my face up, glaring at the phone.

"Well?" Grandma asks just a little too mildly.

"He's picking me up in the morning," I say with dread numbing me. "Then I guess the whole world gets to meet August Marshall's fiancée as she falls on her face."

I'm so not ready for this.

God, what was I thinking? Why are all these people staring at me?

The cameras pop like fireworks every three seconds.

Just how rich is August to have this many people obsessing over his personal life?

I thought I could handle this.

I mean, I've made it through an art exhibition full of snooty rich people who'd only come to gawk at the ordinary girl's art and pretend they were getting culture by slumming it.

I didn't even have a nice dress then. Just a basic glittery black cocktail dress that was a little too slutty for the occasion but was perfect for what I normally used it for—the one date-night dress that worked reliably every time.

Back then I could feel them looking at me with thin-lipped suspicion that said I hadn't actually been chosen for that exhibit based on any kind of talent.

No, they just liked feeling good about themselves by plucking up some little street urchin and making her sparkle like she mattered for a few nights.

Still, I breezed through it.

I laughed.

I smiled.

I was awkward and silly and brazen and I let myself have fun. Because no matter their reasons, I still had a gallery exhibit, and the rich bitches weren't the only ones who showed up.

Plenty of other folks came because they wanted to appreciate the art. I couldn't be miserable about any extenuating circumstances when I got to hang back and watch people stop to study my paintings with that thoughtful look that said they honestly appreciated what they saw.

This time, at least I have a proper dress.

Somehow, I survived putting on that dress while Lena helped me with a more demure makeup style than my usual colorful eye shadow wings and bold pink lipstick.

Once Lena did my hair pretty in a delicate chignon with sideswept bangs, I felt like a real lady.

Once I put on the pale-lavender open-weave cardigan to go with the dress and added my pantyhose and the pretty off-white slingback heels Angelique helped me pick out, I felt like a goddess.

When August came to the door to escort me to the car and stared just a few seconds longer than he really needed to, and he handled me like he was grasping something delicate?

I was breathless.

Gratefully trapped in a thrill I can't describe.

Maybe this is my Cinderella moment. Maybe once he saw me as a princess, the prince would easily fall in love.

But no.

I'm not Cinderella, and this is no fairy tale.

I'm not even the ugly stepsisters, the stepmother, or the fairy godmother.

I'm the damned pumpkin, and there's no one here to make me shiny while I stand in front of this podium with August by my side and my face frozen in a smile that will turn into a grimace if it gets any wider.

It's the relentless flashing that kills me.

I didn't know cameras not attached to phones could still blind you.

We stand outside the office building where Little Key leases the top floor. There's an overhang fronted by polished sandstone columns. The paving underneath forms a small outdoor entryway leading up to multiple sets of double doors.

It's here that August chose to hold the press meet, keeping them from snooping and prying around the Little Key workings.

It also creates a dividing line that invisibly says Do not cross. Over three dozen reporters and cameramen are out on the smooth grey pavement in a plaza centered by a fountain.

It keeps them from crowding us, and the building itself blocks the biting late-winter wind to give us shelter. Not to mention an easy escape route so they can't follow us into the building. The plan is to take off in the getaway car waiting on the curb together after we've made our statements—and let people assume we've run off to our lovers' nest.

It also makes the flashes that much brighter, with the overhang casting its shadow over us.

August is saying—something?

I don't know what.

I caught my name; then the flashes from hell melted my eyeballs again, turning me into a frozen statue.

My head rings horribly.

My vision swims, exploding with spangles.

Someone's barking questions at me, but it's not August. I think he's answering for me, but I can't tell, when his voice is just this hollow cadence that doesn't form real words.

It hurts.

It also makes me think of this Reddit post I saw once about this guy who got off on his wife's migraine pain, so he'd wake her up in the middle of the night with a flashlight in her face, flicking it on and off quickly while turning the alarms as high as they would go so she'd burst into an explosive migraine and be helpless while he fucked her.

Honestly, I don't think a single court in the world would have convicted her for cutting his throat. But I feel like I'm being tried and sentenced right now.

Because I haven't said a single word through the chaos, and I'm failing spectacularly as August's imaginary fiancée.

I want to say something.

I want to help.

I want to be myself, extroverted and chirpy and happy to meet these pushy asshats.

I want to be able to walk away from this with August feeling triumphant that we pulled it off without a hitch.

I want to see him give me a real smile just once.

But all I can do is stand woodenly, fighting the urge to burst into tears from the invisible knife plowing through my eye.

Did I mention it hurts?

Everything is red-white, receding into this awful sea, like the whole world drowning in the light of a blood moon.

My knees go weak. I have to lock them to stay up.

Damn, say something.

Tell August what's happening and apologize for failing already, but every time I try to even form a sentence in my brain—I can't.

Another acid flash goes off.

Even closing my eyes and lifting my hand to shield them doesn't stop my brain from getting blown to bits.

". . . lle. Elle. Elle!"

My name?

I realize it's my name because it's the only sound that doesn't peel my face off.

That chocolate-silk voice pours over me, trying so hard to erase the pain.

Then there's a huge hand at the small of my back. Hot as sand- and sea-washed rocks left baking under the sun all day, easing that warmth back into me.

It's all comfort.

And suddenly, the flashers stop assaulting me.

Because there's a tall body moving between me and the source like a wall.

I don't think anything could ever get through August Marshall.

My senses are a stained glass window after a shattering gunshot, but I know the scent of sandalwood and the crispness of his suit and his weight.

When I've got a real rager going on, the slightest stimulation can shred me, but this—this is grounding me, sheltering me, as August's arms pull me against his chest.

I gasp, my eyes prickling with pain and frustration as I huddle against him.

The spell is broken.

I'm magically able to move again, now that I don't have to work so hard to hold myself up. The reprieve gives me that little bit of strength I have to lean into him and clutch the coat of his handsome black suit of fine-woven wool.

I bury my face in the whisper-soft linen of his dress shirt and gird my stomach.

It'd be just my luck to throw up on him right now.

Thank God his hold eases the nausea away.

I feel him bend over, and his breaths against my neck, my ear, my hair.

"I'm sorry," he says. It's not quite a whisper. I don't think a voice this deep can whisper. "Cover your ears, Elle. I need to be loud, and I don't want to hurt you."

I don't understand, but I obediently lift my shaking hands up and press them against my ears. The sound from outside mutes into a dull roar, while the ringing in my head amplifies, reverberating off my eardrums.

Even my palms can't stop me from hearing August clearly.

That dark, heady voice rises for the first time since I've met him.

Now it's a strong, ringing shout.

And maybe my senses are a little warped, but he sounds pissed.

He sounds protective.

He sounds like he's about to start chopping heads.

For me?

"Stop your goddamned cameras right now," August snaps. His tone says there will be hell to pay for anyone who disobeys. "Every last one of you. Shut them off and shut your yaps. Show me a single one of you has common sense, empathy, humanity." He's so condemning. Icicles stab every syllable, and I'm just glad he's not mad at me, when I might just find a reason to be nervous around him after all. "I just told you my fiancée suffers debilitating migraines that can be triggered by bright lights and loud noises—and you immediately bombard her?" His hold on me tightens, gathering me closer in his storming embrace. I think he's intentionally shielding me from their sight. "Don't make us regret wasting our time today. You've got your story. You have the truth to counterbalance the shit-eating rumors you vermin thrive on. We're done here, and you soulless assholes are dismissed."

Whoa.

I don't hear a single camera click now, though a few media hacks still have their phones on silent, quietly snapping shots.

The shouted questions have faded too. Now there's a vague murmur floating through the clasp of my fingers.

August's hand curls against the small of my back, grabbing a handful of my dress and cardigan, and that's when I realize it.

His fingers are shaking with fury.

No matter how sick I feel, my heart twists.

His voice quiets, speaking again in that thunder that soothes me.

"Lower your hands, Elle," he says. "I'll escort you through these hyenas, and we can sit in the car until you're well enough to leave."

I finally manage words, even if my voice sounds broken. "... thank you."

I can't help a bitter, awful smile, though I try to keep it to myself, wrinkling my lips and hiding my face against him a second longer.

So maybe I didn't fuck this up after all.

At least now they'll believe what happened at the airport, instead of the weird twisted story someone made up and ran with.

August holds me closer for a moment longer; then he slowly pulls away, shifting his grip to keep his arm firmly around my waist and drawing me against him.

I didn't know how desperately I needed that.

Just like I need his hold to keep me up and keep me moving when my legs are made of water and everything keeps swaying.

By the time I open my eyes, the number of reporters and camera crew has doubled, then tripled. The shifting and blurring are making me feel seasick.

Slowly, one baby step at a time, we venture out from under the overhang.

August is gentle, shortening his steps and making sure I always have him to cling to and lean on for support the entire way.

God.

I swear, if this man ever tells me he's not good again, I'm going to punch him for lying.

It's awkward, the mumbling stillness as we slowly push past them. It's worse when we hit the fullest patch of sunlight and I wince, slamming my eyes shut with a humiliating cry. I turn my face into August's side and dig my fingers into his coat.

I wish I could feel the cold right now.

But everything is this fountain of pain.

"Shh," August soothes. "Keep holding on, Elle. I'll be your eyes. We're almost there."

My only answer is a whimper. It's all I can grind out.

Still, I trust August to make sure my every step is sure and true.

But as we pass the loudest murmurs—I think where the thickest part of the crowd is, by the sound of it—a male voice calls out, loud and sharp enough to slice me in half.

"Mr. Marsha—"

I feel August go stone stiff against me.

He holds me tighter, both keeping me up and keeping me with him as he stops.

"Shut it," he snarls. The sudden, almost frightened stillness of the plaza carries his voice like a bullet. "Every last one of you should be ashamed of yourselves. If Elle ends up in the hospital from this, I promise your bosses will be speaking to my lawyers."

"August," I whisper, even though I don't fully know what I want to say to him.

Only Gran and Lena have ever protected me this way.

To have this man who barely knows me turn so strong and snarly for my sake ...

It doesn't feel like an act anymore.

I curl my hand tighter in his jacket, even if I risk ruining the expensive fabric.

Stop,I think desperately. Stop it, Jet Daddy, or I'll start to want you for real.

But his hand against my back urges me forward.

The silence feels like another presence with us, hovering and oppressive, as he guides me across the plaza. I feel the shift in the light against my eyelids as we fall under the shade of the trees lining the property.

We're right at the gate now. Just the sidewalk, and I spot Rick waiting in the car on the curb and rejoice at the thought of lying down.

But August stops us just past the gate. I lift my head as much as I can.

He looks down at me with a strange expression before his jaw sets. I think there's something like determination in the knit of his brows and the firmness of his mouth.

What?I try to say, but all my wires are still scrambled.

Then his fingers graze my chin, gripping lightly yet with that sense of the thinnest leash holding back the strength of his touch.

All my wires burn out in a single explosive instant.

Ferocious blue eyes search mine.

"I'm sorry as hell," August whispers; only now the purr of it is deeper, this intimate, rough thing. "I do this for appearances. Don't have a choice, but fuck, I don't know how to stage a kiss. So this will have to suffice."

Stage a what?

My mind wobbles.

Then the full meaning catches up to me.

Not fast enough, as August bows over me and slams his lips into mine.

My mind screams for one last second of common sense.

Not real. Not real. Not real.

This man doesn't feel anything but irritation. It's not effing real!

My lips tingle with the soft graze of his mouth, the lush tease of his beard. Like every bristling touch peels away layers of armor until each time his mouth strokes mine, I just feel more.

More heat.

More texture, more touch.

Everything from the faint crease in his lips to their firmness, the way they feel just like the silk and velvet and dark chocolate of his voice, the tiny hint of dampness making our mouths cling to each other until we're like sweet sticky candy.

More, every time he draws back before another slow, tender collision of our lips connects us for just a moment longer before breaking apart with a soft slick sound.

More everything.

He kisses me like I mean the entire universe to him.

Like he's caught so deep in his need to protect me, to shield me, to love me, that he has to kiss me like I'm fragile and precious.

I can't even feel my headache anymore.

The reporters? Completely forgotten.

There's just me, just August, just this moment.

The breathless magic minute when his tongue parts my lips, hungry and claiming and teasing.

His kiss captures me so intensely I rise up on my toes with a sharp shock that starts at my lips and plunges down through my heart, through my stomach, to right between my legs, where it curls up there in a little pool of sharp heat.

Holy hell.

I've had boyfriends tease me with lips and tongue to take me to the brink, but it always fell just a little flat. It felt too contrived, too awkward.

But August takes me there with one kiss.

He tastes like clove smoke, though I've never seen him with a cigarette.

I can't feel anything but the space between us, the charged air between our bodies compressed and superheated until it slips under my dress and touches me like his tongue flowing over my naked skin, peaking my nipples, sliding between my legs to lick and tease and own.

I've never done drugs, but kissing August feels like a hit.

Everything bursts into vivid Technicolor sensation.

I can't help myself.

I part my lips and clutch at him, lean into him, begging him for more.

No matter how gently he kisses me, there's nothing soft about this.

There's a secret sensuality lingering, something that makes it dirty and needy and perfectly hot.

God help me, I want more.

I don't want to stop.

If we do, I'll go crashing back to reality, where I'm dizzy and sick while dozens of bystanders stare at us like we're zoo animals. Living reminders that I'm only doing this for his image.

Not because he wants me.

That thought isn't enough to smother this feeling, though.

It's like August could crawl inside me, deep in the darkest part of me, and ignite me from within so I burn in waves that pulse out through my whole body.

There's so much promise in such a barely there kiss that I can hardly hold back a moan, a sigh, a wanting whisper of his name.

But I can't.

Not with everyone watching.

Not when, to them, he's just comforting his distraught fiancée. Not when—

"Eleanor! Hey, Elle!"

I snap back from August, shock ripping through me. It's only been seconds, but I feel like we were locked together for hours, until someone called out my name. Our eyes lock in a hard, intense look before I turn toward the sound of my name without thinking.

Just in time for another atomic flash to melt my eyes.

Pain uppercuts me like it never left, driving an iron spike between my eyes.

Whimpering, I tilt forward.

August catches me with a snarl boiling up his throat.

I barely catch a glimpse of someone smirking, then disappearing into the trees along the sidewalk with a camera clutched in his hand, before my vision goes dark and murky.

From the vibrating tension in August's touch, he's about to charge after my camera ninja like a marine drill sergeant who's just caught some dumb boy climbing in through his daughter's window.

Only, he doesn't.

He stays, holding me tighter than ever, while I hear the car door open and a third set of footsteps, then another car door opening.

"This way, Mr. Marshall!" Rick urges softly.

"Thank you, Merrick," August answers. His hands guide me forward. "Just a few more steps, Elle. Fuck, I'm sorry. Old paparazzi trick to get you to turn for a good shot. I should've briefed you on their games."

"I-it's okay," I stammer.

But it's not okay.

It's worse being bitch-slapped from that wonderful kiss and back into this awful feeling than it was with the swelling migraine alone.

August ushers me into the car so carefully.

I still can't see beyond vague hints of things around the black-and-white flashers clouding my vision, but he coaxes me to sit, to draw my feet in, before Rick closes the door behind me and reclaims the driver's seat.

"Stay," August orders Rick. "Elle isn't well, and the motion could make it worse. Give her time." To me, he whispers, "Lie down. Just like before. We'll wait as long as it takes."

I let him guide me, stretching out gratefully across the plush back seat.

What I'm not expecting is that when he says just like before, he means—

Resting my head in his lap, apparently, instead of scrunching up to fit my head against the seat at his side.

I'm too tired to question it.

And I don't really want to when it's comforting and close, and that's exactly what I need right now without thinking too hard about it. So I settle with my head in his lap and close my eyes.

I don't mean to fall asleep.

I want to stay awake.

I want to talk to him.

I desperately want to wonder what that look was for after he kissed me, almost like he was angry at me, and not the photographer.

I want to hold on to the warmth still throbbing in my lips.

So many wants, but I can't.

My body takes over and drags me down a bottomless abyss.

Before I can think about what I want next, I'm gone.