In some ways, that explains my attraction to Kian. He is the storm. Powerful and devastating. And I realized something about myself when I was bent over that cold table in The Room: there’s a sick part of me that wants to be the thing he devastates.
I shudder and shake that thought away. When I look up again to focus on where I am, I realize that I have no fucking clue. It seems like I’ve walked myself into another neighborhood, no less opulent than the one where Kian’s mansion was situated.
I keep my eyes peeled for passing vehicles. I hear one in the distance and turn to look. It’s a white soft-top BMW, and it’s going so fast that it whizzes past me before I can even raise my hand to flag it down.
“Fuck,” I mutter.
I look down at my appearance. I’m reasonably presentable. Respectable even, with my jeans, white t-shirt, and forest green jacket. Why wouldn’t someone stop for me? But instinct is telling me that, around these parts, it’s unlikely.
Another sound catches my attention, but when I whip around I can’t see anyone behind me. Shaking it off as simple paranoia, I keep walking, hoping someone will stop for me.
Then I hear it again.
This time, it’s so distinct that I know I’m not imagining things and I’m not being paranoid. I don’t turn immediately. I keep walking, but I keep my eyes and ears peeled. It takes only a few more minutes for me to confirm it.
Someone is following me.
I have a creepy feeling that, whoever it is, they have nothing to do with Kian. I have a feeling that if he or his men were following me, I’d have no clue unless they wanted me to know of their presence.
I should have packed a freaking weapon. I realize at the last moment. A hammer, a kitchen knife… even just a sharp pen would be better than nothing.
My freedom has always been fleeting. A luxury that was snatched away at a moment’s notice. Kian had given it back to me, but all it would take is to walk in front of the path of the wrong man.
God knows I’ve done that enough times already in my life.
I pick up the pace, and I can feel my stalker pick up speed as well. He’s not exactly being subtle. Either he’s doing it purposefully, willfully trying to freak me out, or he’s just that clumsy.
Maybe he realizes that, too, because he jumps out at me suddenly. He doesn’t make a sound, but I’m so aware of him that I react immediately.
“Leave me the fuck alone!” I haul off and hit him hard across the face, causing his dark hoodie to fall back, revealing his face.
He bares his teeth, staring at me through furious, glinting eyes.
And my mouth drops open. “Jesus! Drago?”
“You fucking bitch,” he snarls at me, holding his cheek where I hit him for a moment.
I haven’t done any real damage. The most he has to contend with is a red cheek and a light stinging that’ll probably disappear in a few minutes.
“You scared me,” I say defensively.
“That was the whole goddamn point,” he growls. “You’ve forgotten what it’s like to be scared.”
“In general?” I counter. “Or just of you?”
He takes a few steps forward. I back away from him immediately. He grabs my arm though, preventing me from putting the distance between us that my body craves. “Did you just think I’d forget about you?” he demands.
“A girl can dream.”
His eyes flash with anger. He slaps me hard across the face.
It’s been weeks since I’ve last been hit. I react from a raw, guttural, still-wounded part of myself that I’d subdued for a long time with Drago—and I ball my hand into a fist and hit him hard.
There’s one, maybe two seconds between the moment he slaps me and the moment I punch him.
My reaction—actually fighting back—is so unexpected that he stumbles back. It’s only when he looks back up at me in shock that I realize I’ve actually succeeded in giving him a bloody nose. Pride surges through my bones and I find myself standing a little straighter.
I should’ve done that twenty years ago.