How Old Are You?

Amara Cross POV

“Do not overthink it, Amara. It is just a normal car,” I told myself, trying to push the fear away. Still, my steps quickened. Then they turned into something close to running.

I wrapped my scarf tighter around my neck until it almost covered my nose and kept walking with steady steps. Then a strange feeling crept over me. The sound of a car engine behind me. Quiet. Too quiet. Moving slowly. Matching my pace perfectly.

The car did not fall back. It came closer.

Is he a kidnapper? A madman stalking me?

I swallowed hard and started to run for real, but a harsh coughing fit slammed into my chest and froze me in place.

A sharp pain hit my side. I stopped, forced to, pressing my palm there while gasping for air. In that moment, I felt a warm hand touch my shoulder from behind.

I screamed with all my strength.

I spun around fast, lifted my bag, and swung it at him. I started hitting his chest and shoulders with my frozen hands, screaming in panic, “Stay away from me, you kidnapper. Do you think I am scared. You do not scare me.”

I was screaming with my eyes squeezed shut, terror tearing my throat apart. Suddenly, he grabbed both my wrists with steady force, pinning me still. His broad chest blocked my movement. His breath was too close to my face.

“Crazy girl. Calm down.”

I opened my eyes wide. Heat rushed to my frozen cheeks. I stared at him in shock, my tongue tied. “Oh my God. Mr. Dorian. I am so sorry. I did not mean to. I thought you were…”

He lifted one brow slightly and said with dry sarcasm, “You are crazy.”

Without another word, he slid his arm behind my back with firm gentleness and opened the car door that had been right behind me.

“Get in.”

He said it calmly. I hesitated, about to argue, but his sharp look silenced me before I could speak.

I obeyed and sat on the soft leather seat. He closed the door firmly, cutting off the noise of the street.

I watched him walk around the car and take the driver seat. He put on his seat belt, his eyes never leaving mine.

I turned my face away and said with regret, “I am sorry for hitting you. I did not mean it. I just thought you were a kidnapper.”

“It is not your fault. I scared you too,” he said simply.

A faint almost smile touched his lips. It made me shift in my seat and clutch my bag to my lap, tense, waiting for the car to move.

Then his voice came low and teasing, “Do you always forget your seat belt, or do you do it on purpose so I put it on for you myself?”

My brows knitted in shock. Before I could say a word, he leaned closer. I breathed in his strong masculine scent. He reached across me, pulled the belt smoothly, and clicked it into place. My cheeks burned.

“No, no, do not take it that way. I just forgot. That is all.”

He hummed, unreadable. I could not tell if he believed me or was only pretending.

The car moved. Snow brushed the windows. Warm air filled the space, the opposite of my mind, which was boiling with questions.

“But how did you recognize me from far away in all this snow?” I asked softly.

“I was heading to the restaurant. I saw a short girl in an oversized coat that looked bigger than her, like it was walking on its own. It was not hard to recognize you.”

My eyes widened at his blunt teasing. I crossed my arms over my chest. “I am not that short.”

He finally looked at me, one brow raised in challenge. “How tall are you?”

I leaned back and said with mock pride, “Asking a lady about her height or weight is an insult, sir. We women see those things as very private.”

He laughed softly. A short laugh, but it slipped into my chest and spread a strange warmth there. Then he hid it fast, like it was a sin. It vanished before I could really look at it.

We finally arrived at Señorita Restaurant. It was huge and stunning, its glass front glowing with rich golden lights. I followed him inside, pulling my coat tighter around me. A young man in a sharp suit and a smiling hostess welcomed us.

After a few minutes of refined silence, I looked up and asked, “Can I ask you something personal?”

He answered with a short hum.

“How old are you?”

He set his fork aside and said calmly, “I just turned forty.”

I gasped, my voice echoing in the private booth. “Wow. I thought you were in your mid thirties. You look very young.”

He watched my shock without emotion and went back to eating. “Why? Do I use creams? Masks? Or do you think I sleep in a fridge?”

He replied evenly, “Genes.”

I raised my brows in admiration. “Oh. Then lend me some of those genes. Just a little.”

He shot me a sly sideways look and cut me off with mockery, “If I gave you any, you would disappear, little one. You barely show on the road and you want some of them?”

Time passed quickly. On our way back to the car, the snow started falling again. I rubbed my hands together, searching for warmth despite the heater. Heat climbed toward my forehead. A bad chill crept into my limbs. My head throbbed hard. My hands shook. Dorian stayed focused on the road.

Tired, I grabbed my bag and took out the bottle the doctor gave me. I dropped two pills into my mouth and drank water in silence. I did not read the instructions. I just wanted the pain gone.

I tried to watch the streets, but dizziness started to eat at my balance. Everything around me began to spin.

His voice slipped in softly, “Are you okay?”

I turned to him slowly and nodded, lying, while my face screamed pain. He went back to the road, but I felt his eyes checking on me now and then.

I looked ahead again, but my head could not take it anymore. I want to sleep. I should not. Not now.

“What number is your house?”

His voice was the last thread holding me to reality before my heavy lids fell and I sank into deep sleep.