CHAPTER 3 — Between Floors

“Excuse me?”

The stranger looked almost as irritated by his own question as Irene was.

“What are you wearing?”

Irene stared at him.

They had been alone in the elevator for maybe twenty seconds, so that might have been a personal record for getting insulted by someone she had never met.

“Clothes.”

His eyes narrowed. “I mean the scent.”

“I've been cleaning for four hours.”

“That isn't it.”

“Well, that's good. I was worried the bathroom cleaner had become part of me.”

He looked at her again, and Irene became more aware of just how large he was in the small elevator. Not bulky, exactly. He was leaner than that, but tall enough that she had to tip her face up slightly when she looked at him.

The tattoo on his right arm disappeared beneath his pushed-up sleeve. His hair was dark, a little messy, and his eyes were an unusual golden brown.

Very attractive, but unfortunately, he was utterly rude.

He inhaled again.

Irene's patience thinned.

“Are you seriously smelling me right now?”

“No.”

“No? Well, you've done it three times.”

His jaw tightened. “I said no.”

“You are－”

Irene was about to snap at the man but the elevator jerked. She grabbed the railing.

The overhead lights flickered once. Then everything stopped.

“Oh, come on.”

The stranger immediately looked at the control panel.

Irene pressed the lobby button.

Nothing.

She pressed it again.

Still nothing.

The emergency light came on overhead, dimmer than the regular lights.

The man beside her swore under his breath.

Irene hit the call button.

A crackle came through the speaker, followed by a voice telling them there had been a temporary elevator fault and maintenance had already been contacted.

“How long?” Irene asked.

“Should only be a few minutes, ma'am.”

She thanked the voice and leaned back against the wall.

The stranger was staring at her again.

She looked at him. “What?”

His expression tightened. “Nothing,” he said and turned away.

Irene checked her phone.

There were two messages from Belle and one from Amanda.

She put it back into her bag without opening either.

She could survive several minutes in an elevator. She had survived worse places with less ventilation.

Beside her, the stranger moved to the opposite wall. That should have made the space feel bigger. Instead, Irene noticed him more.

He crossed his arms over his chest, then uncrossed them. Then he ran one hand over his jaw. He looked at her and then he looked away.

Whatever problem he had, apparently she was causing it by existing.

“Do I know you from somewhere?” she asked.

“No.”

“Did I do something to you?”

“No.”

“Then why do you keep looking at me like you're mad?”

His eyes came back to hers. “I don't.”

“You do.”

“I am not angry at you.”

“Wow, that is actually very difficult to believe.”

He looked toward the ceiling.

Irene waited.

Finally, he said, “You smell strange.”

There it was again.

“Oh my god! You already told me. What is wrong with you?”

“Nothing is wrong with me.”

“Well, you could stop smelling me, you know.”

“I've tried.”

That answer was odd enough that she didn't immediately respond.

He seemed to realize it too because his mouth tightened.

Irene looked him over again.

He did not seem drunk. No bloodshot eyes. No slurring. He was standing perfectly straight.

“You're a lycan, aren't you?”

His gaze sharpened. “Yes.”

That explained the smelling, not the attitude.

Irene had never spent much time around lycans. They existed in the city, obviously, but her life didn't overlap with theirs much. She knew the basic things everyone knew and not much beyond that.

Apparently sniffing strangers in elevators was one of the things she had missed.

For half a second, he looked like he might say something. Then the elevator dropped, not far, but maybe a foot. But it was enough that Irene's stomach jumped and her feet shifted beneath her.

She lost her balance and the stranger caught her. One arm went around her waist before she hit the wall. Her hand landed against his chest.

Then everything stopped. 

Not the elevator. 

That had already stopped.

Him.

His entire body went rigid.

Irene felt his fingers tighten once against her waist.

He was warm. Much warmer than she expected, even through her shirt. And very solid.

Her face was close to his now. Close enough to see the darker ring around his eyes. Close enough to notice that he had stopped breathing.

Irene's own heart suddenly started working harder than the situation required.

The stranger looked down at her. Then his gaze dropped to her mouth.

Suddenly, the air in the elevator felt different. Irene didn't know what else to call it.

He inhaled. And this time, his face was close enough to her hair that there was no pretending he wasn't smelling her.

And then his eyes changed. Not physically, but his expression did. The irritation disappeared for a second, replaced by something much more focused.

Then his jaw clenched. “You need to move.”

Irene looked down.

His arm was still around her waist.

“You're holding me.”

His eyes closed briefly. Then he released her so quickly she almost lost her balance again.

Irene caught the railing. “Thanks.”

He stepped back. Farther this time. As far as the elevator allowed.

“You're welcome.”

Irene stared at him. “You're very strange.”

He laughed once without humor. “You have no idea.”

The elevator remained stubbornly still.

Irene rubbed the spot at her waist where his hand had been. She could still feel the warmth there, and that was annoying to her. So was the fact that she had noticed his chest under her palm.

He reacted like she had said something important. “What?”

“Nothing.”

“There it is again.” He looked away. “That fucking smell.”

Irene was beginning to think he was just one of those weird and insanely insolent lycans.

Suddenly, the elevator hummed beneath their feet. The regular lights came back on.

“Finally,” Irene said between a sigh.

It began moving again.

The stranger watched the numbers change above the doors.

Irene checked the time. She had missed the bus she wanted.

Perfect.

The elevator reached the lobby and slowed.

“What’s your name?” he asked.

Irene looked at him in disbelief. “Are you serious right now? No.”

His brows pulled together. “No?”

“No, I’m not giving you my name.”

“I only asked your name.”

“After spending ten minutes telling me I smell weird and staring at me like I did something to you, you want my name? No.”

“I wasn’t staring.”

“You were.”

His jaw tightened again.

Irene adjusted the strap of her bag.

“You’ve been rude since you got in here. Why would I give you my name?”

For a second, he just looked at her. Then he said, “Fine.”

“Great.”

“You’re difficult.”

Irene stared at him. “You started this conversation by asking what the hell I smelled like.”

“And?”

“And now I’m difficult?”

“Yes.”

The elevator doors opened and Irene walked out.

“Good talk.”

She heard him mutter something behind her but didn’t bother turning around. 

She had made it halfway across the lobby when she realized he hadn’t followed. That should have been the end of it. Instead, she looked back.

He was still beside the elevator, watching her.

Irene stopped. “What now?”

His gaze dropped briefly to her bag.

The coffee-shop apron she had shoved inside that morning was hanging partly out of the top. The shop logo was visible across the fabric.

His attention stayed there for only a second before returning to her face.

Irene pulled the apron farther into the bag.

Something about the way he looked at it bothered her, though she couldn’t have said why.

She kept walking.

Several minutes later, she could feel exactly where his arm had been around her waist.