Rory
Dray pulled back half an inch, close enough that I could still feel the warmth of his breath, his hand still resting at the back of my neck exactly where it had gone still — and I watched, with a rising, sick dread, understanding crash over his face in real time.
For one endless, suspended second, I thought maybe I'd imagined it. Maybe his hand had just shifted, maybe the stillness meant nothing, maybe the whole thing was about to resolve itself back into the kiss we'd both been leaning toward a moment ago. I searched his face for any sign that I was wrong, some flicker of the warmth from thirty seconds earlier still holding on.
There wasn't one.
Neither of us moved. His fingers stayed pressed against the fabric edge just below my hairline, the thin, unmistakable ridge of the comp
