He was right. I hadn't called the police. Because I still valued my life. So I'd scrubbed the blood off my shoe and went back to work and played piano like nothing had ever happened. Not that it mattered. The Russians still knew I was there. Why else would they have this guy following me?
"I don't need to be watched," I said.
"I disagree."
"If the Russians wanted me dead, I wouldn't be standing here talking to you now."
"Maybe they just haven't made up their minds yet."
"I can take care of myself."
"In this one instance, I don't think you can."
"Then stop fucking following me and let me get myself killed in peace."
This time he laughed. The sound was low and intimate, and it did something to my pulse that I refused to examine too closely.
Without much thought, I stepped forward. Stopped. Then took another.
His breath caught. "What are you doing?" His voice had gone tight.
"I want to know what you look like."
"Raven—"
"You've been watching me for weeks. You know what I look like. You've probably memorized every detail." I took another step. "For all I know you've got my entire apartment rigged with cameras. I think it's only fair."
"That's not?—"
"What?" I challenged. "Smart?" I was close now. Close enough that I could feel the heat radiating off his body. I leaned my cane against my leg. "Didn't you notice, Milo? I stopped being smart the moment I confronted you in this alley."
Slowly, tentatively, I reached up, giving him plenty of time to move away if he wasn't comfortable with what I was about to do. And when he didn't, I found the side of his throat with the fingers of one hand to guide my other. His neck was lean and strong, and his pulse beat steadily beneath my touch.
He didn't move away.
My fingers found the edge of his jaw first, rough stubble scratching my fingertips as I traced the line of it. There was strong bone structure beneath.
I let my fingers wander over his face, mapping his jaw, the sharp angle of his cheekbone, and the slight hollow of his cheeks.
His breathing had gone shallow.
I moved higher, finding the bridge of his nose. Straight. No breaks, which was surprising if he's involved with the Bratva. My fingers drifted to his brow, following the curve of bone, then back down to his lips.
They were softer than I expected and slightly parted. Full, but not so much they were too feminine. As I explored, the tip of his tongue came out to wet them, lightly brushing the tips of my fingers.
Heat curled low in my stomach. Traitorous and inappropriate.
I was touching a man who'd possibly been present at a murder. A man who'd definitely stalked me. A man who could snap my neck before I even knew he'd moved.
And yet my body didn't care.
His pulse jumped beneath my fingertips where they rested against his throat. Fast and unsteady. I wondered what color hishair was. His eyes. His skin. His ragged breathing was loud in the stillness…
Suddenly his hand closed firmly around my wrist. Just hard enough to stop my exploration.
I expected him to push me away, but he didn't. Instead, he held me there, my fingers still pressed against his lips, his pulse hammering against my other palm.
For a long moment, neither of us moved as we stood, frozen in time. His breath against my face was clean and warm, and I felt the tension in his body, coiled tight like a spring about to snap. Felt the battle happening inside of him. And for a brief moment, I had the crazy thought that he was going to kiss me.
