"Come with me," he said, his voice low, gruff and full of command.

She eyed him quizzically and he could sense the wariness in her gaze.

"Please," he said softly, holding out his hand to her.

Still mute and confused, she nodded and took his hand, holding it as though he might slap her at any moment.

They hadn't touched in, well, in weeks, except for her to correct his posture or help with spotting as he lifted weights.

This felt... at once familiar and stomach-flutteringly new.

He tugged her down the hall away from the din of the party behind them and into the bedroom at the end of it, which was darkened by pulled curtains and lit only by a light emanating from the attached bathroom.

She stopped in the doorway, unsure what was happening.

"Lay down," he said, closing the door behind her with a soft click.

Her head whipped up to meet his gaze, his eyes gone from light gray to dark steel – and with a completely unreadable expression, even in the dim light of the room.

"I..."

"Please," he repeated, his voice low, commanding. "I won't hurt you. I don't bite. You should know that by now."

Cautiously, she lay down on her back on the bed, stiff as a board, waiting for the next move.

He strode to the other side of the bed and flopped down beside her, also on his back.

She didn't dare look at him, instead focusing on her shallow breathing as she fought not to cry, not to scream, not to run.

They'd hurt her so deeply with their words, and then this... being ordered around by a guy who clearly didn't like her, had treated her like contemptible dirt for weeks and then...ordered into bed?

What was happening?

"Come here," he said gruffly. She took a deep breath and darted a glance at him. He extended one arm as though to pull her to him, and with his other hand patted his chest. "Come here, sweetheart," he said, the endearment melting her seemingly tough exterior.

After only a moment's hesitation, she slid across the quilts and barely touched her cheek to his chest, her heart hammering in her own, her arms locked under her body.

This was Nicky, she reminded herself. Nicky, who she thought she had connected with, but then had treated her like...

"Relax, sweetheart, c'mon," he said, his voice soft and soothing now, interrupting her run-on thoughts. "Lay down."

She finally obeyed, laying the weight of her whole head onto his solid chest. She inhaled his scent – soap and detergent and warmth – and closed her eyes. She tentatively put her hand on his chest, snuggling into his warmth, her fingers still cold from the time sitting outside by the dormant bonfire site.

She felt one of his hands tangle in her hair, cradling her head gently, the other splayed across her back, as though to pull her more fully onto him. "Let it out, sweetheart. You can stop being brave now. No one will ever know. You can cry over the way those assholes in the other room are treating you. You can cry over what a complete jackass I've been to you the last few weeks. You can cry over De Costa as much as you want without anyone knowing, but I swear to God he's not worth one tear from you."

And with that soft soothing promise, the tears flooded her eyes and spilled onto the shirt beneath her cheek. Weeks of frustration, chastisement, annoyance and fear poured out of her, and though she sobbed silently, he tightened his grip on her, tugging her closer.

After what felt like hours, the tears stopped and she felt... lighter. As though a load she didn't know she'd been carrying had been lifted. She brushed at her eyes then lifted her gaze to his, her chin digging into his chest.

He shifted slightly, avoiding her gaze, looking up at the ceiling instead. His hand moved and she glanced over at it, noting its mottled, purpling knuckles.

"What happened to your hand?" she whispered, not wanting to break the spell in the room.

Nicky hesitated, then answered. "I punched a hauler."

"Why?"

"I was pissed."

"At what?"

"It hardly matters anymore," he answered honestly. "But at the time, I swear it was the only reaction warranted based on the information I'd been given."

She nodded, still watching him, hearing the party rage on in the other room, muffled by the distance between them. She sighed and looked at him again.

"Why?" she asked simply.

"I read you better than you think, and I could read that you needed a minute; needed a chance to get it out. Just looked like you needed some comfort, that's all," he said, his voice sounding tentative, embarrassed. Not at all like the commanding voice of only a few minutes ago.

She watched his, his eyes darting around the room, not daring to meet hers now that reality was returning. "I did. Thank you."

He nodded, his eyes studiously on the ceiling.

"I guess it was just... unexpected," she continued, trying to pull him back to her. "All these weeks I've been convinced you hated me. Kinda shocking that you... wanted to help me."

"I don't hate you," he said simply. "Of course I don't hate you."

"But you act like I'm your nemesis, like I'm a pest. Hell, you won't even look at me most of the time," she said, and then added, "like now. You can't look at me."

"I'm shy is all," he said, he cheeks flushing to the roots of his tousled blond hair. "I'm just shy. You know that."

"I see a thousand women a weekend throw themselves at you – you aren't shy then."

"That's different."

"Why? What makes that different?"

"They are a momentary distraction, and I'm never gonna talk to them, or share a meal with them, or..." he shook his head then, cutting himself off.

"Or what?"

"I'm never gonna feel the way about them the way I would about a girl I was serious about wanting to date. I'm not gonna date a paddock girl. I want a real girl."

She didn't say anything, just kept her gaze on him in the soft light.

"I want you," he said, his eyes locking on hers. "Christ, but I want you."

If she hadn't already been lying down, she would have fainted.