Finally—finally—he stops moving.
He stands in the center of my apartment. But that dangerous energy still slakes off him in torrents. His eyes find mine, and they’re still that bottomless black.
“Bastian,” I whisper, “what the hell is going on?”
He shows no intention of answering my question.
Instead, he takes a step forward.
Then another.
Then one more.
I back up instinctively until my spine hits the kitchen counter. There’s nowhere else to go. My tiny little hovel offers no escape routes. It’s just me, him, and about three feet of boiling air between us that’s shrinking by the second.
“Bastian,” I try again, “you need to tell me what’s happening.”
He keeps coming. Three steps away. Two steps. One.
When he reaches me, his hands slam down on either side of my hips. I’m caged in place. Couldn’t run if I wanted to. Problem is…
Idon’twant to.
That’s the thing that terrifies me most. Not the blood on his shirt or the feral look in his eyes or the fact that he just beat a man unconscious in a public park. It’s that some twisted part of me isthrilledby all of it.
It was a lifetime ago when I first made those stupid caveman jokes in my head.Big man say go eat oysters. Me go eat oysters with big man.It was cute then. Funny, even.
This isn’t cute. Not by a long shot.
This is barbaric, bloodthirsty danger.
He leans in close enough that I can smell the wintergreen on his breath mixed with the acrid tang of dried blood. “You’re not leaving this apartment,” he intones. “Not today. Not until I say it’s safe.”
“Safe from what?”
“From people who want to hurt you.”
“Like the guy in the park?”
“Yes.”
“Who was he?”
Bastian’s eyes darken even more. “It doesn’t matter.”
“It matters to me!”
His laugh is ugly and caustic. “Of course it does. Because you can’t just do what you’re told, can you? You have to push and question and dig until you get yourself fucking killed.”
“I’m not the one who just beat a man unconscious in broad daylight!”
“No, you’re the one who almost got shoved into a fucking trunk!” He smacks his hand against the counter beside my hip hard enough to make me jump. “Do you have any idea what they would’ve done to you? Do you want me to paint you a picture?”
“Who’s ‘they’? Who are you so scared of that you’re acting like a freaking psychopath?”
His scowl hardens. “I’m not scared forme.”
“Then who?”
