Surely he will not follow me around all day.
I stop abruptly.
He is so close he doesn’t have time to stop.
He crashes into me from behind, the force sending me forward. The world tilts, the floor rushing up to meet me, but before I can hit it, a strong arm hooks around my waist.
I slam into a hard chest.
Hischest.
A scent reaches me, warm spice, cedar, and smoke.
And then the psycho’s face drops into my hair, into the hollow of my neck, breathing me in like a deranged man tasting oxygen for the first time.
“Fuck,” he murmurs, his voice hoarse. “You smell so intoxicating you could drive a man feral. Vanilla, isn’t it?”
His grip tightens slightly. “I’m going to have to buy whatever it is you use. Wash everything I own in it. Even myself.”
His mouth brushes my ear. “So your scent can settle into my skin the same way you are already embedded in my very being.”
Jesus Christ.
I truly don’t understand the depths of this man’s obsession, or his infuriation with me.
I drive my elbow into his side, hard, as I shove myself forward.
It is like slamming my arm into a brick wall.
I grimace as pain shoots up my arm, and it irritates me even more than his touch.
I whirl around and glare at him. He is staring back, his brows drawn together, his eyes flicking between my arm and my face, looking genuinely concerned.
“Blyad,” he mutters, stepping closer. “Did you hurt your arm?”
He reaches for me before I can move. “Let me see.”
I yank back. “Don’t touch me.”
His eyes flick to my hand again, and when he finally meets my gaze, they are pitch black. It takes a second for him to surface from whatever just possessed him, and I am almost certain I hear, low under his breath,you’ll soon beg for my touch.
He glances down the corridor, his jaw tightening. “Let’s go to the infirmary. You need to be seen. Maybe I, fuck… maybe I broke your arm.”
“Stop,” I snap. “Do not follow me.”
He opens his mouth, his eyes hardening on mine, something dangerous settling into his posture. For one brief moment, I am certain he is going to haul me over his shoulder and carry me off like the barbarian I know him to be.
“I’m serious,” I interpose. “Turn around. If I hear you following me again, the next time I look back, it will be with my fist in your face.”
I spin on my heel before he can reply and stride down the corridor.
Three steps.
That is all it takes.
Before his footsteps are behind me again.
I murmur under my breath, “Do not say I didn’t warn you.”
