He takes a step toward me, a hint of that smirk remaining on his face—just the slightest curl in his lips.
I take a step back. Finally, my instincts aren’t completely jacked sideways, and I make my first smart move of the night.
“Cat got your tongue, little mouse?”
Briefly, I close my eyes. His voice washes over me, leaving goosebumps in its wake. The sound is as deep as his black eye.
I swallow again, nearly choking on the very muscle. It feels like my tongue has swollen to double its size.
“What do you want from me?” I choke out.
He prowls towards me. My spine tightens, and despite the gallons of fear pumping through my heart valves, I stay still. When he gets close enough, I’ll stab him.
Aim for the throat, Addie.
My eyes lock with his, and all thought escapes me. He presses the entirety of his body against mine. No shame. No shyness. No, let me buy you a drink first before I press my man pecs into you.
The boldness of it has me nearly biting my tongue in surprise.
It takes several seconds for my body to unlock. Before I can think about what I’m doing, I swing my knife towards him, but meet resistance when I attempt to lift it.
I look down in confusion, just to see his bare hand wrapped around the blade. Blood pools in his hand, a small trail heading straight towards my own.
I gasp, my eyes widening and snapping back to his. Not a single iota of pain shines in his eyes. Not even a glimmer.
He jerks on the blade once, ripping it from my weak hold, blindly tossing it behind him.
The knife clatters loudly against something before toppling to the floor, the sound reverberating in the otherwise quiet room. Nothing but my heavy panting breaks the static of silence surrounding us. His presence is a vortex, steadily depleting the oxygen from the room—and even from my brain.
Because I cannot think straight with his body so close to mine. With the fear coiled tightly around me, the force of it turning my body to stone. I’m useless. Powerless. The inability to fight rages in my head, my survival instincts tell me to just move, yet my body refuses to.
And then his bloody hand is wrapping around the back of my neck and bringing my body flush with his once more. I cringe at the feel of his life’s essence dripping from his hand. The blood feels like menacing fingers crawling down my spine, staining my skin as if to mark me.
To my horror, he lifts his other hand—the one still gripping a much more wicked-looking knife than mine—and brings the tip of the blade to the underside of my chin.
He applies enough pressure to force my chin up further, the metal biting into my skin. The slightest curl to his lips stalls the breath in my lungs. The act speaks of something daunting. Something condemning.
“You’re even more beautiful up close,” he murmurs, his sinful eyes devouring my face.
I scowl and plant my hands on his chest, ignoring the pure steel beneath his flesh, and attempt to push him away. But he resists the force, his lip curling into a snarl.
Tears rim my lids as frustration grows.
“Please, just leave. I-I don’t want you here. I don’t want you. Just leave me alone,” I beg. It feels like reaching a hand inside my chest, yanking out my pride and throwing it onto the floor. But I don’t give a fuck about my pride in this moment.
I just want this man to fucking leave.
He presses in closer. “Are you going to cry, Addie?” he taunts. My hands are still pressed firmly against his chest. His heart is racing beneath my palms, giving me pause. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think he’s not as unaffected as he’s appearing to be.
“No,” I lie.
I will absolutely have no problems crying my eyes out after he leaves. But I refuse to show him any more weakness.
He flashes me a feral, toothy smile, pulling the blade from my chin and dropping his hand from behind my neck.
The second he steps away, I feel a mixture of coldness and relief. But then he’s coming right back.
The intensity in his eyes holds me in place as he walks to stand beside me, his chest brushing against my arm. He smells like leather and smoke. It’s intoxicating. He’s intoxicating.