Then he released me and stepped back. I shivered as cold air rushed in where his warmth had been.
"Stay out of dark alleys, Raven." His voice was rougher now, the casual mask he wore cracking around the edges. "Seriously. You're going to get yourself killed."
I heard him turn. Heard his footsteps retreat toward the mouth of the alley.
"Milo?"
He stopped.
"Same time tomorrow?"
Silence. Then a quick, soft exhale that might've been another laugh or a sound of disbelief.
"Go home, little bird."
The footsteps resumed. Then faded as he left me standing there.
I stood there in that alley for a long time after he left, my heart pounding and my fingertips buzzing where I'd touched him.
Little bird.
I smiled. I liked the nickname. I'd never had one before.
I made it home on autopilot, finding it hard to concentrate on where I was going with the memory of Milo's pulse jumping under my fingers. Once or twice I thought I heard him following me, but I couldn't be sure. And I didn't stop again.
The apartment felt too quiet when I closed the door behind me. Too empty. I stood there, listening to the silence, until the logical side of my brain finally kicked in.
What the hell are you doing?
I'd just confronted a dangerous man who'd admitted to being present at a murder. Who clearly worked for—or with—the same people who'd taken my father's restaurant and turned it into a front for their criminal empire.
I should've been more worried for my safety. Instead, I leaned against my door and replayed the entire encounter in my mind like some lovesick teenager with a crush.
The sound of his voice. The things he'd said. The way he'd let me touch his face. He could've stopped me. Should've stopped me.
But he hadn't.
He'd stood perfectly still and let me map his features with my fingers while his breathing fractured and his pulse raced against my palm.
And then he'd grabbed my wrist—not to hurt me, but to hold me there. Like he couldn't quite let go even though he knew he should.
Little bird.
The nickname echoed in my mind. There was a sound of ownership in it. Possession.
I should've hated it.
But I didn't.
Still in a bit of a daze, I pushed off the door and moved through my apartment, my body knowing the space down to the millimeter as I made my way to the bathroom.
I ran the shower hot enough to fog the mirror I couldn't see and stood under the spray until my skin no longer felt the burn. Picking up the soap, I started to wash myself.
What would've happened if I'd pushed? If I'd stepped closer instead of letting him retreat?
The thought sent heat curling low in my stomach that had nothing to do with the running in rivulets over my sensitive nipples.
I shut off the water and dried myself roughly, shoving down my body's response to a man I knew nothing about.
