Vipers and Virtuosos (Monsters & Muses, #2)(14)

Burning. Not of flesh, this time, or even gasoline. It’s an internal fire, singeing my organs as if clearing the path for new life.

His stubble grazes my temple, and I can feel him straining. Trying to see what he feels.

“What—”

My body tenses, my jaw locking as I wrangle myself from Aiden’s grasp, diving into the clothing rack like he’s held a flame to my skin.

His dark brows furrow, arms falling a full minute after I’ve left them, as though they’d already become accustomed to my presence.

“Where the hell is your shirt?” he hisses, moving toward me. Pausing, he seems to think better of it, and shrugs out of his jacket.

“You didn’t give me one!”

“Jesus Christ.” Letting his jacket fall to the floor, he tosses his cap and glasses down. Hooking his fingers in the hem of his hoodie, he whips it over his head to reveal a plain black T-shirt beneath.

I gape as he extends his arm, holding the hoodie out for me.

“Seriously? You want to argue about this too? You’re topless, angel.”

My chin lifts, defiance ebbing through me like a tsunami. I’m annoyed with myself for the way the evening’s panned out. Annoyed with the fact that he’s seen me in such a vulnerable state—felt the most vulnerable piece of me, even if he didn’t get a good look at it.

I’m tempted to search his gaze and find out just how much he saw. See if it changed the way he looks at me, but I don’t.

That way lies madness.

“Just put it on, please. The bagels will be done in a minute, and I really don’t feel like busting Ronan’s ass for looking at your tits.”

Jaw clenched, I snatch the hoodie from him and yank it on, untucking my hair from where it gets caught in the hood. I look ridiculous in the oversized clothes, but I’m more comfortable in them than I have been all night.

Aiden runs his knuckles over his bottom lip as I step out of the rack, his eyes darkening like melted silver. I throw my hands out and twirl with a wide, fake smile.

“Better, sir?”

His hand tightens into a fist, knuckles bleaching. “Much. Now let’s go.”

He puts his disguise back on and grabs a pair of slip-on shoes too big for me in the lost and found bin. Paying for them and a clean pair of socks, he hands the items over.

I push my feet into them, letting out the softest moan when I’m no longer constricted by my heels.

Draping my discarded dress over one shoulder, I wait at the counter while Ronan—a heavyset man with a white mustache—rings up the total. He shoves a paper bag in our direction, and Aiden swipes it from the counter at the same time he hands over a wad of cash.

“Keep it,” he says, holding a palm up when Ronan tries to return his change. His hand whips out, tangling with mine, and then he’s yanking me from the building and back up the street.

My fingers tingle where we connect, but I stuff the sensation down and blame it on excitement.

Definitely not fate.

I still struggle to keep up, my feet flopping around in the new-to-me shoes, and he’s practically sprinting up the sidewalk. We bump into people, and I whisper apologies as he drags me along, aware that they likely can’t hear my words.

He moves fast, with his head tucked into his chest, alternating between glancing back at me and at the crowd. If someone’s holding a cell phone to take pictures, or a camera points in our direction, he veers as far away as he can get, blending into the darkness.

We pass by the complex where the gala is being hosted, and I still do a double take to see if maybe Mellie and Aurora are scouring the outside for me. I don’t see them, and soon I don’t see anyone as Aiden snags a corner and crosses the street.

I feel the water before I see it; the air gets a little cooler, a lot cleaner, and soaks into my skin with a soft breeze. He releases my hand as we reach a dead end, and I wonder if this marks the finish line of our adventure.

A coerced night with a rock star, a change of clothes, and a bagel I haven’t even gotten to taste yet. I suppose there are worse ways to close out a trip to New York City.

But Aiden doesn’t stay still for long; his figure moves in the shadows cast by the streetlights, and he starts up the path in front of us, pushing the chain-link gate back enough for us to slip in. I follow like a cat fiending for tuna, shuffling behind him.

Once past the wrought iron fence surrounding the area, we stop to catch our breath.

The park is compact, mostly made up of brick and concrete, dotted with gardens I suspect are probably flush with exotic flora in the spring. Right now, they’re barren, the wild boar statue to my left the only real appealing thing inside.

Across from us is the East River, and I step closer, captivated by the way the city skyline reflects off the surface. A massive bridge stretches horizontally over the body of water, connecting Manhattan to Queens—which I only know because I studied the boroughs excessively before this trip.

My shins meet the concrete barrier between myself and the river, and I let out a wistful sigh.

“It’s beautiful,” I say softly. Reverently, as if my compliment might upset the water.

Aiden steps up beside me, resting his free hand on the rail next to where mine is curled around it. I feel his eyes on me, hot where they try to penetrate deeper, but I refuse to turn my head and get sucked in.

“Yeah,” he says, the one word laced with such tenderness to it that I ache between my thighs in a way I never have before.