I whip the knife out from behind my back, holding it out in front of me with a shaking hand. The blade catches the light, a tiny, silver threat against a giant.
He stops. He looks at the knife, then up at my eyes. A slow, dark smile spreads across his lips. It’s not a nice smile. It’s the smile of the devil realizing you want to play a game.
"Careful, little bird," he purrs. "You might cut yourself."
"Stay back!" I shout. "I mean it! I’ll kill you!"
"I doubt that."
He moves.
He closes the distance between us in a blur of motion that defies his size. One second he’s five feet away, the next he’s right in front of me.
I slash the knife through the air, aiming for his face, his chest, anything.
He catches my wrist mid-swing.
His grip is like iron. Unyielding. Painful. He stops my arm with zero effort, twisting my wrist just enough to force my fingers open. The knife clatters to the floor, useless.
He doesn't let go. He pins my wrist against the wall above my head, his body slamming into mine, trapping me between the desk and his hard, unyielding frame.
I gasp, the air knocked out of me. The contact is electric. I can feel the heat of him through his clothes, the solid wall of muscle beneath the expensive wool of his coat. He smells of winter air, expensive tobacco, sandalwood... and something metallic. Something sharp.
Blood.
I look down and see a small, dark splatter on the white cuff of his shirt.
"You... you’re bleeding," I whisper, my eyes wide.
"Not my blood," he murmurs, leaning down. His face is inches from mine. I can feel his breath on my cheek, hot and minty.
"Who are you?" I ask again, tears prickling at the corners of my eyes. "What do you want?"
He releases my wrist but keeps his hand planted on the wall beside my head, caging me in. He reaches out with his other hand—a large, leather-gloved hand—and traces the line of my jaw. The leather is cool and smooth against my skin.
He drops his hand lower, his thumb brushing over the pulse point at my throat, resting on the diamonds of the choker.
"It suits you," he says softly, ignoring my question. "I knew it would. You have the neck for it. Long. Elegant. Vulnerable."
I shudder, a mix of revulsion and a dark, twisting heat coiling in my belly. "Take it back. Take it and leave."
"I don't give gifts to take them back, Ivy."
He leans closer, his nose brushing against my hair. He inhales deeply, as if he’s trying to memorize my scent. "Vanilla and fear. My favorite combination."
"Please," I whimper. "Just tell me what you want. Money? I don't have any. My dad—"
"Your dad," he interrupts, his voice hardening. The temperature in the room seems to drop. "Your father is the reason I’m here."
My stomach lurches. "Did he... did he borrow money from you?"
"Something like that." Silas—I don't know his name, but my mind screamsPredator—pulls back slightly so he can look me in the eye. "He owed a debt. A very large debt to very bad men. Russians."
"I... I can’t pay you," I stammer. "I have nothing."
"He didn't have the money either," he says. "So he offered a trade."
He pauses, letting the silence stretch, letting the horror sink in before he’s even said the words.
