He slips a hand into his pocket, and my brows lift before I can stop myself. Okay, maybe?—
Nope.
He pulls out a knife and flips it open with practiced ease, the blade catching the overhead lights and flashing bright.
“You want to show me a knife? I mean… It’s cool?”
He pins me with a look that shuts down every smart remark forming in my head. “No. I want to show you where the most fatal places to aim on a man’s body.”
My throat tightens as I swallow. “Okay.”
He lifts the knife and runs the gleaming edge slowly across the side of his neck.
“Drago!” I gasp.
“Anywhere here is a pretty good bet.” Then he drags it down over his chest.
“I think I’d learn better with the shirt off,” I say, keeping my tone serious, even though my pulse is doing something reckless.
He steps closer, closing the distance until my back almost brushes the wall.
“Oh, yeah?” His voice drops.
I squeeze my thighs together and nod, not trusting my mouth to behave.
Without a word and keeping scorching eye contact, he cuts the front of his t-shirt and rips it off, letting it fall to the floor.
Dear. Fucking. God.
Under the harsh lights, this close, I feel dizzy. Heat floods me.
He’s a wall of muscle and scars. Ink curling over his arm, across his chest, climbing his neck. Marks down his left side that make my fingers itch to trace them.
Heat floods my body, and I squeeze my thighs together.
“Wow. It really is an eight-pack,” I breathe.
Then my focus shifts, and the heat turns cold.
Deep, angry scars slash across his left side, cutting through muscle and ink alike. The tattoos frame them, but they can’t hide them. They’re newer than the artwork. Fresh enough to tell a story.
“Someone tried to kill me, and failed,” he says casually, like he’s commenting on the weather.
“I can see that. Jesus, that looks painful.” Before I can stop myself, I step closer. His breath catches as my fingers trace the scars gently.
Then I make the mistake of looking up.
His eyes have darkened, jaw clenched so tight it looks like it might shatter. The air between us goes so heavy I can’t breathe.
I yank my hand back. “I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have done that without asking.”
His expression softens, just a fraction. “Don’t apologize.” He threads his fingers through mine and places the knife in my palm. He guides my hand down to his abs.
“Here,” he whispers, brushing the blade along the left side.
“And here.” He shifts it to the right.
“But you want it deep and twisted.”
