This is a man who lives and breathes violence, an apex predator for whom rules of society don’t exist.
A monster who’s tortured and killed countless people.
The surge of anger and hatred that comes with the thought cuts through my fear, and I take a step forward, then another and another until I’m walking toward him on almost steady legs. If he wanted to kill me, he could’ve already done it in a million different ways, so whatever he wants today must be something different.
Something even more evil.
“Hello, Sara,” he says, rising to his feet as I approach. “It’s good to see you again.”
His deep voice wraps around me, his soft Russian accent caressing my ears. It should sound ugly, that voice from my nightmares, but like everything else about him, it’s deceptively appealing.
“What do you want?” I’m being rude, but I don’t care. We’re long past politeness and good manners. There’s no use pretending this is a normal get-together.
The only reason I’m here is because not showing up could endanger my parents.
“Please, sit.” He motions to the chair across from him and sits down. “I took the liberty of ordering a cup of coffee for you. Black, no sugar… and decaf, since you’re not working today.”
I glance at the second cup—prepared exactly the way I would’ve ordered it—then meet his gaze again. My heart drums in my throat, but my voice is even as I say, “You have been watching me.”
“Yes, of course. But you figured that out last night, didn’t you?”
I flinch. I can’t help it. If he saw me try to make that call, then he saw me stagger drunkenly into the bathroom and come out naked.
If he’s been watching me for a while, he’s seen me in all sorts of private moments.
“Sit, Sara.” He gestures at the chair again, and this time, I obey—if only to give myself a chance to calm down. Rage and fear are a tangle of live wires in my chest, and I feel like I’m one deep breath away from exploding.
I’ve never been a violent person, but if I had a gun on me, I’d shoot him. I’d blow his brains all over the trendy Starbucks wall.
“You hate me.” He says it calmly, as a statement of fact rather than a question, and I stare at him, caught off-guard.
Does he read minds, or am I that transparent?
“It’s okay,” he says, and I catch a glimmer of amusement in his eyes. “You can admit it. I promise not to hurt you today.”
Today? What about tomorrow and the day after? My hands form into fists under the table, my nails digging into my skin. “Of course I hate you,” I say as steadily as I can manage. “Is that a surprise?”
“No, of course not.” He smiles, and my lungs tighten, preventing me from breathing. It’s not a perfect smile—his teeth are white, but one is slightly crooked on the bottom, and his lower lip has a tiny scar that wasn’t visible until now—but it’s magnetic nonetheless.
It’s a smile nature designed for one purpose only: to lure in unwary women and make them forget the monster underneath.
My nails dig deeper into my palms, the bite of pain centering me as he says, “You have every right to hate me for what I did.”
I gape at him. “Are you trying to apologize? Do you seriously think that—”
“You misunderstand.” The smile disappears, and his silver eyes flash with sudden fury. “Your husband deserved it. If he weren’t brain dead, I would’ve made him suffer so much more.”
I recoil instinctively, pushing my chair back, but before I can jump to my feet, his hand catches my wrist, shackling it to the table.
“I didn’t say you could go, Sara.” His voice is dark ice. “We’re not done here yet.”
His fingers are like a molten iron cuff around my wrist, his grip burning hot and unbreakable. I remain sitting and instinctively glance around. The nearest patrons are a good dozen feet away, and nobody is paying attention to us. Panic beats in my chest, but I remind myself the lack of attention is a good thing. I haven’t forgotten how he threatened the others at the club.
Pushing my fear aside, I focus on slowing my breathing. “What do you want from me?”
“I’m trying to decide that,” he says, his face smoothing out. Releasing my wrist, he picks up his coffee cup and takes a sip. “You see, Sara, I don’t hate you.”
I blink, caught off-guard again. “You don’t?”
“No.” He puts the cup down and regards me with cool gray eyes. “It probably seems that way, given what I’ve done to you, but I hold no ill will toward you. Just the opposite, in fact.”
My pulse lurches before settling into a new frantic rhythm. “What do you mean?”
The corners of his mouth turn up. “What do you think it means, Sara? You intrigue me. You fascinate me, in fact.” He leans in, his gaze pinning me in place. “You don’t remember what you said to me when you were drugged, do you?”