I froze again, half from fear, half from something else I didn’t want to name. He was close, too close. His breath brushed my cheek, hot against my skin. His eyes, dark and sharp, locked on mine.
Up close, he didn’t look like a killer. He looked like a man unraveling, and that scared me more.
Because men like him, broken and hurting, were the kind who didn’t stop once they started.
“Why aren’t you fighting back?” he demanded, knife trembling slightly in his grip.
I didn’t answer. Couldn’t.
He pressed me harder against the wall, his forearm across my chest. The old plaster crumbled beneath us, showering dust down our shoulders.
My fangs ached from restraint, from panic. From the scent of him, alive, human, and far too close. For one impossible moment, the world narrowed to his face.
There was a flicker there. Hesitation. Recognition. Like he saw something in me he didn’t want to admit to. The knife didn’t move.
I should’ve taken advantage of that, shoved him away, run. But I was frozen, caught between fear and fascination. Between instinct and something almost magnetic.
His gaze flicked to my mouth, then back to my eyes. The muscle in his jaw jumped.
Then he inhaled sharply, and everything shifted. He stepped back. Just an inch. Enough for me to breathe again. The tension snapped all at once.
I shoved him, hard, trying to break free, but he caught my wrist and twisted. Pain shot up my arm. The knife clattered to the floor. We both went down.
He rolled first, fast and practiced, pinning me before I could scramble up. His knee pressed into my stomach, his weight keeping me down.
I clawed at his coat, but my strength was fading fast. I hadn’t fed properly in days; my limbs felt like lead.
He grabbed my jaw, forcing me to look at him. His knuckles brushed the corner of my mouth, smearing the dried blood there. His expression changed when he saw it.
His brows drew together, confusion breaking through the anger.
He touched his fingers to the red smear, brought them close to his nose.
“Animal,” he murmured, more to himself than to me.
The word seemed to unspool something inside him. His knife hovered inches from my throat, but his grip trembled.
“Why?” he asked quietly. “Why would you do that?”
I swallowed hard. My throat felt dry as dust. “Because I don’t want to hurt anyone.”
The truth came out before I could stop it.
For a heartbeat, neither of us moved.
Then his knife lowered, just slightly. The hardness in his expression cracked. It was only a fraction, but enough. His eyes searched mine, like he didn’t know what to do with what he saw there.
I wanted to look away, but I couldn’t. The space between us felt too small, his breath too warm, his presence too human.
It was the first time anyone had looked at me like I wasn’t a monster since I’d woken up dead. Then, just as quickly, it was gone.
He shoved off me, standing, breathing hard. His expression shuttered back to cold control.
“Stay down,” he said hoarsely, voice rough like he was talking to himself as much as me.
I didn’t move. Couldn’t. My arm throbbed, my ribs ached, and my head spun.
He wiped his bloody hand on his coat, picked up his knife, and backed toward the door.
