He’s left his black collared shirt open at the neck. I refuse to acknowledge how mesmerizing it is to watch his Adam’s apple bob in the strong column of his throat. Or blush when I see the clear imprint of my teeth several inches above the tattoos that escape the top of his chest.
His dark hair is longer than I realized, brushing the back of his suit jacket in messy waves. The angles of his cheeks and jaw look gaunt in the daylight, a result of not getting enough rest.
The dark circles under his even darker eyes confirm that suspicion. Rem doesn’t look like he’s gotten a second of sleep since he carried me into this room, but he doesn’t allow exhaustion to show in any other way.
He stands tall, his height somehow more intimidating in the soft surroundings. His broad shoulders don’t slump, hisphysical strength forcing that suit of his to hold on to civility with every last thread.
And his eyes—those unusually dark eyes—seem to take in everything in a single glance.
Everything, in this case, being me.
He’s far more subtle than me and my blatant staring, but I feel Rem’s gaze flick down my body. Given his tense expression, maybe he’s checking for injuries, bloodstains, signs of weakness.
Then again…his attention stops on my bare knees and lingers before sliding up my exposed thighs. The borrowed sweatshirt falls only a few inches past my ass, and I shake off the impulse to tug it down. I’m not going to squirm under his scrutiny. I’m standing my ground. That’s the only way to deal with bullies, right? To not let them push you around in the first place.
A tactic my nervous system isn’t quite on board with. The longer Rem looks at my bare legs, the shallower my breathing becomes, the hotter the flush on my cheeks.
I’m the first one to move. He’s on the other side of the room, the bed between us, but I still take a few steps back, putting even more distance between us. I internally curse when my fingers start to fidget with the sweatshirt’s hem.
Skipping any pleasantries, I go straight for irritated and hostile. “Go away, I’m eating.”
“Hmm.” Rem glances at the tray of food as quickly as he dismisses it. His footsteps make no noise as he moves around the bed.
I watch black boots clear the edge closest to me. They are at odds with the suit. Bulkier than the dress shoes I would’ve expected. They’re worn in, scuffed despite what looks like a recent shine. The kind of boots you’d wear when riding a motorcycle.
The kind of boots that hurt if you get kicked.
“I want you to leave,” I tell those boots. “I’m not dressed.”
We’re practically toe to toe now. Shit-kickers versus bare, very vulnerable feet. I avoid his eyes and convince myself it isn’t cowering. I’m already feeling the strain of last night and the longer I stand the more my side aches. Arguing with his feet is an energy-saving tactic. A strategy for staying in the fight as long as possible.
“I’m sure you would.” His voice is calm, surprisingly quiet. “And yes. I’ve noticed your lack of clothing.”
From a survival perspective I decide to ignore that comment. No need to dwell on our relative positions of power in this conversation. Or my lack of appropriate attire.
Rem is a force of nature. Standing this close it’s impossible to ignore. And I’m not ready to deal with it, him, or whatever is waiting for me outside this door.
Maybe it’s weakness. Maybe it’s just my brain needing a little more recovery time before facing big, bad reality. Whatever the reason, I retreat another step, resting my back against the wall and keeping my eyes fixed on Rem’s boots. “I said leave. I’m not done eating and I need more sleep.”
“I’m not arguing with that.”
For a second, I think—pray—I’m in the clear. That after a string of very bad events, this might be the small glimmer of hope that things are about to change.
On his next words my glimmer dies. “But I’m not leaving. Not yet.”
“When?”
“Only after I make something very clear.”
I don’t bother answering.
“Look at me, Lena.”
I don’t. Never give into a bully.
“Fine, but avoiding me won’t do any good. Especially not now.”
The taunt works, damn it, and I can’t help but retort, “Why’s that?”
