The insult doesn't offend him in the slightest. In fact, I think he takes great pleasure in it.
"Many someones, actually," he steps forward slightly, close enough that I could reach for him, far enough that it doesn't feel invasive. "But don't you worry, pet, I amquitedurable."
The more he speaks, the more I, unfortunately, become intrigued.
He has an unplacable accent. One that speaks of both finer things and untold nightmares. A slight roll of his tongue with the R's, his mouth shaping every word with intention and purpose, as if he's beenspeaking them for centuries, not years. As if he's the antagonist of a historical horror film with a haunting and taunting villain.
And he called me pet.
Something I'm definitely not going to have a reaction to.
A small smile creeps onto my face anyway, begrudgingly enjoying this interaction, "Or your opponents were completely inept."
"As was yours," he gestures toward the caution-taped alleyway across the street with his chin.
He was. Most men like him, the ones who only prey on women who they've drugged or were otherwise incapacitated, are entirely out of their depth when someone fights back.
"Your first?" he continues, leading the conversation.
That's a question I won't be answering. While this is mildly entertaining, I'm going to incriminate myself if this guy is playing me.
Instead, I sweetly smile and bat my eyes at him. Flirtatious but taunting. And he knows it for the game that it is.
Positioning himself in front of me with one hand on the wall beside my head, he reaches with his other, his frigid fingers smoothing hair behind my ear before leaning in to speak low enough that I feel the words against my ear as much as I hear them, "You have blood on your neck, pet." His finger drifts further down, ghosting along my collarbone. "Just there."
Fuck.
Not only am I furious that I missed a spot before entering the bar, but his proximity is doing silly things to my head. And my nipples. There's no denying my body reacts to his, but that doesn't mean I'm in a position to be entertaining him.
I watch him from the corner of my vision, motionless as he leans back, searching my face hungrily, his gaze flitting across my lips before landing on my eyes again.
"You're going to get caught, you know," he taunts, and for the first time, I actually think I might dislike him.
"Excuse me?"
"I mean no offense," he assures me, his gaze locked on the blood on my décolletage before going lower. "A slit throat is messy. I can only imagine how bloody the rest of your body is."
I might be imagining it, but I swear he sounds excited by the idea that I'm coated in blood. The heat in his eyes could be just for the parts of my body he's looking at, but something tells me he's as fucked up as I am, craving the darkness as much as I do.
"And if I am coated in someone's blood?"
His eyes dart back to mine, "I am knowledgeable on many things,includingdisposing of bloody garments. Let me help you."
Underneath the heat, there appears to be genuine concern. He's toying with me, but Marcos actually wants me to get away with this.
My eyes narrow, "Why? Why help me?"
"Did he deserve it?" he asks me sincerely.
With a swallow, I nod. He did. And nobody else was going to do what needed to be done.
"And your other victims?"Victim, but... semantics."Did they deserve their ends, too?"
I nod again.
"A doe-eyed vigilante," he grins at me, making me blush. "You need a side-kick."
I nearly burst into laughter, only reining it in because I don't want to give him the satisfaction.
