DANE
She’s not painting tonight. And if I wasn’t fully aware that her male friend is dating someone else, I might be tempted to violence.
Franklin showed up at her apartment with a cheap bottle of red wine two hours ago. He lives upstairs from her, his own cramped one-bedroom just as shabby as hers, but slightly tidier.
I know because I checked in on his place when he was out one day, only to find a picture of him kissing a handsome man framed on his nightstand. That same man enters this building and spends the night every weekend.
They seem to be in a committed relationship. I don’t have to worry about Franklin’s hands on my Abigail when they’re tucked away in her apartment.
Still, I don’t like how they drink wine together for hours. I know they often watch cheesy animated musicals together. But does she share her secrets with him? How much does he know about this woman who is my obsession and my greatest mystery?
Something ugly sours my stomach.
Jealousy?
I shake off the odd sensation. If I’m going to experience a shadow of true emotion—a rarity that I’ve only known since first setting eyes on Abigail—it won’t be jealousy over her platonic friend.
I lean back in the rickety garden chair, slipping deeper into shadows as I watch her through the thick foliage of my overgrown azalea bushes. I lower my binoculars for a moment so that I can take in a long draw of my whisky.
Abigail is elusive in a way that irks me.
Does she see the monster beneath the carefully crafted façade?
She did seem afraid this morning. She jerked away from me twice: first, when she spilled the coffee on me, and again when I escorted her outside.
But she willingly made contact with me when she tried to blot the coffee splatter on my shirt. Her hands had fluttered around my torso like frantic flaps of a caged bird’s wings. And when I captured her wrists, her pulse jumped at the contact. I’d indulged myself, maintaining the domineering hold for longer than appropriate.
And when her wide, aqua eyes met mine, her pupils were huge and dark—dilated from either fear or desire.
Maybe both.
Thinking about that makes my arousal rise, so I push the memory away and take another sip of my drink.
If Abigail is afraid of men, I’ll prove to her that I’m capable of protecting her. She has no idea the lengths I’ll go to in order to keep her safely with me.
She rejected me.
That’s unacceptable.
I’ll find a way to woo her. She’ll come to my bed willingly, and she’ll offer her wrists for the shackle of my firm grip.
We’ll start with my hands. They’re more than strong enough to bind her fragile frame until she’s ready for the darker games that I need to play with her.
I settle into the shadows, watch her mind-numbing movie through my binoculars, and formulate a plan to sweep her off her feet.
7
ABBY
“Don’t scream.” The harsh, inhuman growl threads through the haze of my oxygen-starved brain. His gloved hand is clamped over my nose and mouth, and my muffled cries sputter and die as my lungs begin to burn. Darkness creeps in at the edges of my vision, making the shadows in my apartment lengthen to obscure my limited view.
My cheek is pressed against the peeling ivory paint on the inside of my front door. His hard body cages mine from behind.
The shadows darken, and my lashes flutter. I’m going to float away. Only his firm grip is keeping me anchored to reality.
My knees fold, and his hard chest presses against my back as he releases a sharp curse. His massive body pins mine, preventing me from falling. His smothering hand drops from my face.
“Breathe.”
