5.

Arcade

Belle"s presence is like a breath of fresh air in this place, and I'm torn between launching myself at her and holding back, because I know there's something she's not telling me. Girls like her don't just randomly show up, ready to throw themselves into a gruff stranger's arms. Besides, she's so different from me—delicate and with an air of sophistication that reminds me of a life I left behind.

My gaze is fixed on her face and I'm trying to read her expressions, but she's hiding things well.

"Do you want anything to eat?" I say gruffly. Of course I make the question sound like a challenge rather than an invitation and she lets out a quiet laugh. Her laughter softens the tense mood, connecting us again and I hide a sheepish grin.

"Whatever you have will be fine," she replies, her voice gentle, educated. Each word is carefully chosen, precise. It's a stark contrast to my own rough speech, and it makes me feel out of place. My whole being is out of place around her, making me feel like Bigfoot next to a sheltered princess. Every time, I get the need to touch her, I worry I'll accidentally knock her over.

Rummaging through the pantry, I let out a grunt when I find some canned goods. "This will have to do," I say, setting the cans on the table. I open them with a quick, practiced motion, the metal lids clinking as I toss them aside.

"I bet that's going to taste amazing," she says, obviously lying but it makes my heart squeeze. She's trying to make the best of this, and I appreciate it more than I can say.

"Bet you're going to taste amazing," I mutter under my breath, and she frowns.

"What's that?"

"Nothing," I reply, because that was far too rowdy for her innocent ears. As we eat, I steal glances at her, marveling at the way she holds herself, at the quiet confidence. She's a reminder of a different life, a world of polished manners and social graces that I abandoned for the wild. And now I almost wish I hadn't, knowing the old version of me would have suited her better.

"I used to run a company," I blurt out, surprising even myself with this deep need to impress her. "Theron Sons. It was successful, but it never felt right. I always felt this pull, this need to be out here, away from everything."

She tenses a bit, and her throat rolls when she swallows. "What kind of company?"

"Logistics," I say, the memory sharp and clear. "I managed fleets of trucks, warehouses full of goods. That kind of thing."

Opening up, feels unnatural to me. I'm a closed-off man by nature, preferring the company of the bayou's silence to the clamor of human interaction. But Belle makes me want to share, to let her in. I know that if I don't, she might slip away, and that thought is unbearable.

"It must have been hard to leave all that behind," she says, her voice a strange mix of understanding and reprimand.

"Not really," I admit, feeling the weight of my words when disappointment flashes on her face. "Living in the bayou, has given me something I never had before. Peace. Solitude. A chance to be myself."

Belle gulps, looking away and she squirms. Suspicions flare in me again.

"Look, I know you're hiding something," I say, my voice low and steady. "But I'm not going to pressure you to tell me. All I care about is that you don't run out on me."

She looks down, her fingers stilling on the table. "I... I appreciate that."

Then she really is hiding something. She just admitted to it and I clench the back of my teeth.

There's a heavy silence between us, filled with unspoken words and rising tension. I want to touch her, to hold her, but I'm afraid that if I come on too strong, she'll vanish like a dream. She's an elusive girl, even if she's sitting right next to me it's as if she's barely there.

"I should clean this up," I say, standing up abruptly. My movements are rough, unrefined, and I feel a pang of insecurity, but then my eyes land on the cot in the corner.

Tonight, she's going to have to sleep in it with me. Unless she demands I sleep on the floor, but I don't think she will and my pulse starts racing.

Belle follows my gaze with her eyes, a flush rising on her cheeks.

I reach out, almost unconsciously, and tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. My hand lingers, the softness of her skin a stark contrast to the callused roughness of mine. "You ever had a man between your legs?" I rasp, my voice rough with emotion. My heart hammers, needing her to say no.

The flush on her face blooms brighter. "Never."

My knees buck. Then I'm going to be the first. And in that moment, I don't care if she's a murderer on the run and I'm her next victim. I'll gladly get stabbed in the back, as long as I get to bury myself in her.