But she is turning to the wrong person. I don’t know how to be merciful. Too many years have passed, too dark and too cold. I don’t have a kind spirt anymore.
“If I decide to agree to this,” I say slowly and her eyes start shining again, “what will I get in return?”
“I was thinking m...money. I don’t have enough now, but I have some saved up. Within a year, it’ll grow to a decent sum and it’ll be all yours...”
“Look around, Miss. Andrews.” I raise my brows condescendingly. “Does it look like I need money?”
Her head drops, before she slowly shakes it. “No,” she whispers. “I suppose you don’t.”
“What else could you possibly offer me,” I say, taking my leg down from my knee and I lean forward. I want her to feel me. Let her know what kind of a man I am. Grown men scream when they see me. If there is any sense at all in her, she should leave me and pretend we never met.
“I don’t have anything else to offer.” She starts squirming again, her gaze carefully meeting mine. “Other than myself.”
“You would sell yourself to me?” I say in a punishing tone and she recoils, her eyes turning glassy. “And all that just to save your friend?”
“Y...yes.”
Watching her with the suspicion of a jealous beast, I add, “Perhaps he is more than just a friend. Maybe even a lover?”
“No.” She says it firmly. “Just a friend.”
“You’re taking a very big risk coming here to try and save him. Very big.”
Lifting her face, she murmurs, “Are you going to help me or not?”
“I need a better look,” I rasp. “Stand up and walk over to the fire so that I can see you.”
Her mouth drops as if she’s realizing that this is not a game, but her face quickly turns determined and she takes a big sip of her drink. Brushing her mouth off with the back of her hand, she stands up, looking at me like she thinks I’ll lunge at her.
When I don’t move she slowly flies over to the fireplace. I say fly because there is something fluid with her movements, she moves like she walks on air. Maybe she is a dancer. Or maybe she is simply naturally ethereal.
I get up, stalking over to her and she throws a look at the door and on the window as if she’s planning escape strategies. I scare her. I can see it on her face that she thinks I’m too big and too looming.
In the brotherhood I’m known as the Siberian Tiger. Nobody with even half a brain wants to be close to me. I am unpredictable. I am not good and I am not nice. When I bite, I ravage. And sometimes, I don’t know how to stop.
Prowling around the girl in circles as if she’s a prey, I inspect her closely, a smile tugging at my lips when I see her goosebumps. She tries to stare me straight in the eye, like she’s a little animal trying to challenge a bigger one to a fight.
But I know I’m bigger and I ignore her gaze, lifting her hair to my nose to smell it and I revel in the softness. It is so smooth that I want to feel it draped over my chest and I rub the strands, letting out an uncontrolled sound of pleasure
It relaxes her some, her shoulders easing and her breathing turns less frantic. I inspect her hips, but they are so slender that they would probably melt in my hands, her breasts nothing but two, gentle mounds straining against her loose sweater.
She is not dressed in tantalizing clothes, her dark blue slacks hanging shapelessly on her lithe legs and she’s wearing thick boots. Her clothing doesn’t flatter her, almost as if she borrowed them from someone because maybe a part of her is scared I’ll say yes.
Say yes and then she’ll have to give herself to me. Do whatever I want her to do.
“Do you wear perfume?” I ask because there is a faint scent clinging to her skin but she shakes her head.
“No, I’m allergic to it. B...but if my smell bothers you, maybe I can go take a shower?”
Bothers me? It does no such thing and she is not cleaning that scent off. I want to rub my face against it. Rub my own against her whole, little body, mark her with it.
I start touching her, testing her limbs to see how comfortable she is around me but she’s overly stiff. If I tried fucking her like this, she would break like a china doll and I’m not the kind of man who has time to pick up the pieces. Pulling her lips down, I inspect her pink tongue and she gasps in surprise.
She jerks away from me, but some of her saliva is left on my fingers and I put my fingers into my mouth, sucking on them and her face flushes.
“You have a very delicate taste, Miss. Andrews,” I rasp as her flavor slides down my throat. “It has made it very difficult for me.”
“To do what?”