"Did you like your gifts?"
I freeze. Every muscle in my body locks up, my breath catching in my throat. The keys slip from my fingers, clattering onto the sidewalk.
I know that voice.
I spin around.
He's standing in the doorway of the building next to the gallery, half-hidden in shadow. I can see his silhouette—tall and leanly muscled, his hands in the pockets of what looks like an expensive coat. But I can't see his face.
"Who—" My voice comes out as a whisper. I try again. "Who are you?"
He steps forward, not quite into the light, but close enough that I can see more of him. Dark hair. Strong jaw. The same build as the man from Boston, the same way of holding himself, confident and dangerous.
"You know who I am." His voice is calm, almost conversational. "You've been looking for me."
My heart is pounding so hard I can barely hear him over the rush of blood in my ears. I say the first thing that comes to mind, my thoughts racing as I stare at Alexander Volkov…I.S….standing there a foot away from me. “You cut off a man’s hand.”
It's not a question. It's an accusation, and my voice shakes as I say it, the words coming out before I can stop them.
He takes another step closer, and now I can see his face in the ambient light from the gallery window. It's him. Alexander Volkov. The man I haven’t been able to shake from my thoughts since Boston, all but admitting that he’s I.S., that he did these terrible things to get my attention.
He smiles, the expression faintly visible in the light. "I wanted to cut off his head.” His tone is matter-of-fact, like we're discussing the weather. "I was showing restraint."
The casual way he says it makes my blood run cold. "You're insane."
"Yes." He moves closer still, and I back up until I'm pressed against the gallery door, my keys still on the ground at my feet. I want to reach for them, but I’m terrified of taking my eyes off this man. "I'm insane for you. I've been insane since Boston."
"Stay away from me." My voice is stronger now, fear pounding through my blood and a thin thread of anger—anger over the anxiety he’s caused me, the disturbance to my daily life—intertwining with it. "I'll scream. I'll call the police."
"The police won't help you. You already know that." He's close enough now that I can smell the warm, woodsy waft of his cologne in the frigid air. "And you won't scream."
I swallow hard, a fine tremor running through my body. "You don't know what I'll do."
"I know everything about you, Mara." The way he says my name makes my skin prickle, fear and a strange, arousing heat curling through my blood. "I know you take your coffee black except for the occasional treat. I know you run every morning at six. I know your route through Central Park. I know you drink wine and work too much and paint in the evenings when you’re having a hard time sleeping. I know what you look like when you sleep." His voice drops an octave, curling over my skin like smoke. “I know the arch of your back and the look on your face when you come.”
The last part makes my stomach drop, and warmth blooms through me, my core hot even though my fingers have gone numb from the cold. "You've been in my apartment."
I should be screaming, or running. Anything except standing here, trapped between him and the door, my body trembling with fear and a sick arousal that has me more pinned in place than the terror.
"What do you want?" My voice trembles.
He steps fully into the light now, and I can see him clearly. He's exactly as I remember—devastatingly handsome in a way that feels almost unfair, almost cruel, because just the sight of him sends desire blooming through me. His icy eyes lock onto mine, and I feel that electricity, thatneed, the hunger in his gaze calling to something dark and primal in me.
There’s something more in his face, now, than what I saw in Boston, though. Something predatory and possessive and utterly unhinged.
"I want you," he says simply. "I've wanted you since the moment I saw you on that sidewalk.”
My breath trembles, frosting in the air between us. "You're a psychopath."
"Yes." He doesn't deny it, doesn't try to defend himself. "But you knew that already, didn't you? You felt it in Boston. You weren’t surprised when I followed you here. Not really. And you don’t hate it as much as you want to. As much as you think you should.”
He's right. I did feel something in Boston, something dark about him that led me to pull away from the idea of there being anything between us beyond just the logistics of it. But this—this is different. This is real violence, real consequences. Realfear.
"I don't want this.” My voice wavers, taking some of the certainty out of it. "I don't want you."
He moves so fast I don't have time to react. Suddenly he's right in front of me, his hands on either side of my head, palms flat against the door, caging me in. He's not touching me, but he doesn't need to. His body is so close I can feel the heat of him, can see the way his chest rises and falls with each breath.
"Don't lie to me," he says, his voice low and dangerous. "I'll know if you're lying."
