His low voice makes me swallow. “Why?”
“Just a hunch.” He dips his chin toward me, bringing us ever so slightly closer, as he smiles, sort of evilly. “And I also think they’re not going to like the fact that you’ve wandered into the enemy camp.”
I’m not sure if it’s his nearness or what but I think that every part of his body is dangerous. That his blade-like cheekbones could cut and his teeth could rip.
His fingers could squeeze and hurt and that he could somehow make me like all of that.
He could make melikethe way he’d hurt me.
I raise my chin, trying to look brave. “Are you going to tell them?”
Those sharp teeth of his come out to play when he smiles again. “Now that’s an interesting thought, isn’t it?”
“Please don’t,” I blurt out before I can stop myself. “As I said, I was leaving. You don’t have to say anything. You could just… keep this between us.”
Great.Just great, Callie.
Tell the villain that you want him to keep a secret.
As expected, his eyes glow.
Like he was waiting for me to slip up.
Like he was waiting for me to fall into his trap and only God can save me now.
Maybe not even Him because when he speaks in a low, raspy voice I have to press my legs together as his words drop down and sit somewhere low, very low in my stomach.
“What do I get in return? If I keep it.” He tilts his head to the side. “Between us.”
Run, I tell myself.
Just please push him away and start running.
But all I do is stand here, staring up at him, even when it becomes difficult, even when it strains my neck because he’s so tall and big.
So beautiful that I don’t know where else to look.
I also don’t know how to stop myself from asking, “W-what do you want?”
This is what he wanted, isn’t it?
Yeah, because his features grow warm with satisfaction before he drawls, “You.”
“What?”
Slowly, those eyes of his travel all the way down to my white ballet flats. “I hear you’re a ballerina.”
My right foot tries to climb on to my left under his scrutiny. “Yes.”
He lifts his eyes. “Then I want you to spin like one.”
“I-I’m sorry?”
He shifts on his feet, making himself bigger somehow, pushing at the very fabric of the air, as he explains, “You like to dance, don’t you? So I want you to dance. For me.”
I blink at him.
I think I heard him wrong. He cannot possibly be asking what I think he’s asking.
