Dalton
Layla’s covered head to toe in mud. She looks absolutely feral, and the fear and confusion in her eyes is notable as she loses her footing and falls right into my arms.
Arm, actually. I keep my sketchbook raised above my head to prevent the mud and grime she’s plastered in from spilling onto the pages of fresh sketches I’ve been working on all morning.
My other arm is roped around her waist as I haul her to her feet. She staggers backward, her mud laden sandals sliding off her feet. “D-Dalton!”
“Layla?” I laugh, unable to help it. “What are you doing out here?”
She screws her face into a scowl, her cheeks the color of ripe tomatoes, before she explodes, “I followed you, you fucking dickhead!”
“Me? Why?”
She looks me up and down, her expression shifting from outright fury to something I can only describe as utter bewilderment. “What happened to your costume?”
“My what?” I set my sketchpad on top of one of the headstones and take off my hat, running my fingers through my hair before securing the paint stained, faded baseball cap back on my head.
“Your costume.”
I look down at my outfit, which is nothing more than a gray T-shirt I’ve had since high school and tan Carhartt pants. My rubber boots come nearly to my knees. “What the hell are you talking about, Layla?” I scan her face then reach out to touch the top of her head, looking for bumps, to make sure she hasn’t fucking collapsed and given herself a concussion.
She shoves me off, scowling up at me, her white teeth bared in a snarl. “You were dressed like you were going to a Civil War reenactment!”
“Uh… are you okay? How long have you been out here?” I take my backpack off and start unzipping it, reaching for the jug of water I brought out with me this morning. “Drink this.”
“I’m not drinking anything you offer me! It’s probably drugged!”
“What the hell is wrong with you right now?”
She’s sunburned and obviously soaking wet up to her waist. Her thin shorts were once light blue but are now a slimy green color and splattered with mud. Her shirt is no better, and beads of sweat roll down her temples as she huffs and puffs at me.
“Layla,” I say, slowly, carefully. “What’s wrong?”
“What’s wrong? You’re asking me what’s wrong?”
I’m beginning to wonder if she’s having heat stroke when she edges closer to me, yanking the water jug she’s just refused out of my hands and wrenching it open. I watch her take several long, desperate drinks of the cold water, her cheeks flushing.
She wipes her mouth and shoves the water into my chest, backing away. “You were in my room last night. You left an empty bottle of booze with a rose in it on the table by my door.”
“I didn’t leave you a rose.” I say nothing about the bottle, but she knows I did that, judging by the furious look in her eyes.
“So you admit you were in my room?”
I arch my brow at her. This conversation could go two ways, and I’m not sure which way I’d enjoy more. Her feathers are already ruffled as it is, and while I’d love to cage her in and tell her I’d thoroughly enjoyed running my hands up and down the length of her naked body while she cried out my name in her sleep, I decide to focus on the fact she looks like she’s about to pass out from heat exhausted and delirium instead.
“You need to come with me back to the house,” I hedge, extending a hand to her. “It’s dangerous out here, and you’re not dressed to be exploring the marsh, especially alone.”
Her lower lip juts out. God damnit, the pout she’s giving me right now could bring me to my knees.
“Layla–”
“If you didn’t leave me a rose, who did?”
“I don’t know. But I was in your room.”
“Why?”
“I was checking on you. You were shitfaced last night and dropped your phone at the gate. Our little… fight made me forget I had it until you were already in the house.”
She blushes, her face turning a new fiery shade of red I’d love to capture in a painting. “What did you see?” she asks, her voice dropping to a mere whisper. Embarrassment flashes behind her sapphire eyes as she meekly meets my gaze.
“A lot,” I admit, a touch wryly. “But don’t worry. I don’t plan on telling anyone about your wet dreams–”
“I wasn’t–”
I cut her off with an arch of my brow. She purses her lips and looks down at her muddy feet. Her arms come around her waist, and that’s when I see it. Blood. I take her left hand and hold it up to the sun. “You got yourself pretty good,” I say, examining the wound on her wrist.
“It was the rose bush,” she says with a shrug, then winces and draws in a breath as I graze my thumb over the long, jagged scratch.
“You need to clean it out really well. This place is filthy.”
“Why are you out here, then?”
I meet her eyes, unaccustomed to her soft, conversational tone. I run my thumb over her wrist again, finding the place where I can feel her heart rate, which is faster than I expected. “I came out here to work on some sketches. The wall paper in the cigar room is all local flora, a lot of which can be found out here if you know where to look.” I search her eyes for a moment. “I wasn’t walking around in Civil War garb, Layla.”
“I swear I saw you. I followed you and ended up way out in the middle of the marsh.”
I lick my lips, still holding her wrist. “Don’t do that again.” The words are a steady, but harsh, warning. Her eyes shine with an understanding neither of us voices right away.
Finally, she asks, “I saw a ghost, didn’t I?”
“Possibly. Have you ever seen one before?”
She looks almost embarrassed.
“It’s fine if you have,” I say, edging a little closer to her, my thumb traveling back over her wrist as I drop my gaze to her skin, to the blood beginning to drip from her wound. “I see them too.”
She looks up at me, startled. “You do?”
“All the time.”
Her chest rises and falls as she holds my gaze. “Are you not afraid?”
“No,” I tell her firmly. Her eyes glimmer as I raise her wrist to my lips and press a kiss to her wound, her blood staining my lips. “Nothing here is going to hurt you.” It’s a lie, unless I can find a way to run her out of this place before it’s too late. But now, standing in the middle of the Gregory family cemetery, her skin pressed against my lips, the only thing I can think about is how badly I want her to stay.
Isn’t this how all the other men who’d stayed in this house went mad?
Her lips part, and she exhales sharply from the sting as I run the tip of my tongue over her wound. The metallic taste of her blood sings through my mouth, igniting that heat that has plagued me since last night.
“Dalton?”
“Yes, Angel?”
She takes several ragged breaths as I back her against one of the headstones, caging her in, letting go of her wrist. I have to lean down to kiss her. She’s incredibly short, barely taller than the headstone at her back. I know once my lips touch hers there will be repercussions for both of us, and the menace that led her into the marsh will not be happy about it.
It only makes me want to kiss her more.
When she rises up on her toes to meet me, I brush my lips over hers in a featherlight touch. I feel her hands grip my shirt, her knuckles digging into my abdomen. She wants this bad. I can feel it; I can almost taste her need as I barely press my lips to hers.
She tastes like coffee with a minty, fresh undertone reminiscent of toothpaste. I smile despite myself, and run my tongue along her lower lip, urging her to open up to me so I can explore her mouth further. But just as she does, and a breathy little moan escapes her throat, I pull away.
“Let’s go.”
She scoffs, her beautiful eyes narrowing on mine.
“Come on back to the house.”
“Why did you…. You’re teasing me.”
I shrug, “Is there something else you want from me, Layla?” My voice is smooth and heavy, dripping with desire I can’t stifle in the moment.
She takes another breath, and that artery in her throat jumps as her heart rate flutters.
I lean forward again, closing the distance between us. Brushing my words over her cheek, I whisper, “I will do anything your heart desires. You just have to tell me what you want, and where you want it. Do you want me on my knees, Angel? Do you want me to pull those little shorts down and take you from behind, right here, against a headstone? How sick is that dirty mind of yours, Layla, tell me. Tell me about that dream you had last night.”
She pulls away, swallowing hard, her cheeks flaming red.
I straighten up, chuckling to myself. “Thought so.”
“You thought what?” she snaps just as I turn away from her and start walking down the crest of the hill. “Dalton!”
“If you need relief, come find me. In the meantime, get your ass back to the house. You need to take care of that scratch before it gets infected.”
She huffs out a breath and mumbles something to herself, likely a curse on my name, but follows me away from the cemetery regardless. I choose a direct, mostly dry, path, not that it matters at this rate. She’s already coated in the muck that floats on top of the marsh. When we reach the cypress trees, she blows past me, kicking her muddy sandals off in the yard before running toward the back porch.
“Don’t even think about it!” I snap, pointing to the water house.
She glares at me with her fingers curled around the railing of the steps before hopping back down and walking with determination to the water hose.