"And yet..." he comes closer, his eyes drifting across my face, searching, burrowing into my skin with his intensity. "You don't seem all that afraid of me."
"From what I understand, your victims don't get much warning."
His smile grows, splitting his lips into a full grin that's all bright white teeth and harsh lines, his overly sharp canines becoming more apparent the closer he comes.
As he edges into my space, an utterly debilitating scent washes over me, making my eyes flutter against my will.Jesus Christ.I don't even know how to describe it. Something floral but citrusy, like Earl Grey tea and jasmine, deepened into utter masculinity by the drenched woody notes. He smells like every decadent sexual fantasy in existence come to life, while looking like every nightmare made flesh.
And he knows it, if the arrogance in his smile is any indication.
"No. They don't."
With a nervous swallow, I step back again, attempting to escapehis proximity and how it sends confusing signals both to my brain and between my legs.
"Then it speaks to reason that you're not here to kill me, Mr. Fomori.” I realize my mistake the moment it slips from my lips, the admission of his real name.Shit. Maybe he won’t notice. I have to get my hands on my gun, but that means letting him out of my sight. I won't be able to find the gun hidden in my cupboard by feel alone. Swallowing down my fear, I turn toward the cupboard, "Do you want a glass of wine?"
A throaty chuckle floats into the air behind me, "Sure."
Breathing out a sigh of relief, I open the cupboard, digging past the glass, my open hand landing where there should be a little pistol and coming up empty.
"You won't find it," he taunts. When I turn to face him, he pulls up his shirt with one hand, flashing the ridiculously toned and artfully decorated muscles across his lower abdomen, using his free hand to pullmygun from his waistband, waving it back and forth with practiced ease. "I'll still take the wine, though."
Asshole.
"It's in the fridge."
Without putting the gun away, he takes a step back, turning to open my refrigerator and take the recently opened bottle of red wine, holding it out by the neck, giving me a better look at the snakes trailing down his fingers and thumb.
Grabbing a glass to match my own, I tentatively reach for the outstretched Gamay, my fingers shaking and my eyes locked not on him, but the weapon in his hand.
As I grab the base, he releases, but doesn't make any movements to put distance between us, instead leaning against the island, far too close for my comfort.
"How long have you been in here?" I ask as I pour the light red liquid into the glass.
He doesn't answer for a moment, waiting until he can take a sip and leave me metaphorically on the edge of my seat.
"Long enough to see your little dance moves while you cook," his eyes dip deviantly down my body again before meeting my gaze. "Adorable, by the way."
Heat builds in my cheeks, part fury, part fear, and all humiliation.
"I'm calling the police," I announce, pulling my phone from my pocket to do just that. "I'm sure they'll beveryinterested to know a fucking fugitive is in my home."
His smile turns vicious as he comes closer, resting his armed hand next to mine on the island, the subtle tap of the gun hitting the marble sending shockwaves of fear up my spine. Seeming completely unaffected by the threat of violence between us, he stands near enough that our chests almost touch, tilting his head down to watch all the emotions my face must flit through as he speaks, "I'm afraid you're mistaken, Brigit." The syllables of my name roll off his wicked tongue in a sonnet, a taunt, and an invitation to sin by the devil himself. He leans in close enough that I can feel the heat coming from his mouth when he whispers, "I'm a free man."
My heart and breath stutter.
Shaking my head, I move to take a step back, only to be stopped by the reminder of the very lethal weapon sitting on the marble just to my right. I should still call the police. There's still a stranger in my home, holding my gun and not so subtly intimidating me with it; even if he isn'ttechnicallya fugitive, he's stilldangerous.
"H-how?"
"My lawyer called it prosecutorial misconduct," one of his brows darts up before relaxing, his intense eyes never wavering from me. "I'm sure you know what that means better than I do."
I nod nervously.
"Yeah?" he presses. "Seems I got off easy, doesn't it?"
I swallow my fear, letting curiosity get the best of me, "Hard to say. Do you really have amnesia?"
"Mhmm." Reaching between us, he grabs his glass of wine, gesturing to my own with it. "Drink. It'll calm your nerves."
