That actually makes him smile. Smile. Nathaniel—the man who never smiles unless it’s fake—actually smirks. For real.
“You’re it, Skye,” he murmurs. “So it better work.”
“Or what?”
My heartbeat returns to my chest just in time for him to drop the most unhinged threat of the century.
“Or we’ll have to make you feel something more than just a light touch over your Grim Reaper clothes.” His voice dips, dark and amused. “We’ll have to make you feel a whole lot more.”
…Oh.
I blink. My brain stalls. Is he talking about pain? Pleasure? Both?
Nathaniel tilts his head, watching me with an expression that’s almost bored. Almost.
But something tells me he already knows exactly how he wants to make me feel.
He just wants me to guess.
I should have known today would be the day Duvall crosses the line.
He just couldn’t stop himself.
His restraint ran out.
I grip the spatula so hard my fingers ache. Butter drips from the edge, coating my fingers.
“Come on now, sweetheart.” He steps closer, his boots squelching against the tile, still wet from the rain. “No need to make this difficult.”
My stomach twists, bile rising in my throat. I know what he wants. He’s wanted it ever since he first saw me four months ago, hovering like a moldy curse I just can’t scrub out. It wasn’t enough to act like a king in my own damn house, to threaten me and Mark, to show up uninvited and force me to cook for him like he’s some kind of medieval fucking lord.
No, he needs more.
And the worst part?
He was always going to take it. I knew it. Mark knew it. And Mark still left the house. He knew what would happen, and hestill walked out the damn door, leaving me here alone with this monster.
The spatula trembles in my grip. The scent of frying eggs turns my stomach. Duvall takes another step.
“You know,” he says, his voice a lazy drawl, “I always liked that fire in you.”
I tighten my grip. It feels like that’s all I can do.
“I’ll scream,” I say, forcing the words past the knot in my throat.
He chuckles, slow and lazy, like he’s savoring the moment. “I bet on it.” Then he spreads his arms, all magnanimous, and licks his crusty lips. “But I wonder why? You think Mark’s gonna come running? You think your neighbors give a damn?”
The words dig deep into me. They're cold and sharp, sliding under my skin like a needle. They stitch together every fear I’ve swallowed, every moment I let myself believe I was safe.
He’s right. We’re alone. Him and me.
But that doesn’t mean I’ll go down easy.
The spatula is useless. A joke. It’s shaking so badly in my grip that even if I swung, it’d be more insult than injury. My eyes dart past him to the block of knives on the counter. Too far. He’d see me coming.
Duvall steps closer.
I step back.
