He stands in the center of the room like he owns the place and me along with it. That glare, as if I have somehow wronged him, not him who has broken into my flat. But the cruel look on his face is the least of my troubles.
“Aren’t firearms illegal in the UK?” I ask, my voice cracking.
“What part of me looks legal to you?” he snorts.
I cross my arms at my chest, if only to hold myself together. Suddenly, I’m very conscious of my short nightdress. My arms push up the low-cut cleavage, but that just makes the hem ride higher up my thighs.
“Can you put it away? They make me uncomfortable.”
Eyes fixed on me, he slides the gun in the breast pocket of his jacket. I know he still has it, but having it out of sight helps defrost my frozen nerves.
“It’s away. Now, get dressed,” he says with authority that demands obedience. “You’re coming with me.”
“No.” I shake my head, stronger than necessary. “I’m not going anywhere with you.”
“You wanna bet?” He takes a threatening step toward me, but I ground myself.
“Do you really expect me to blindly follow your orders?”
“That’s what fealty means, princess.” One corner of his mouth curls up. “Blind. Sworn. Loyalty.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” I repeat as calmly as I can manage.
“I see.” He rubs the stubble on his chin. “Then I guess I’m staying.”
“Excuse me?”
My arms fall to the side, lips parting, as he takes off his jacket and throws it on my desk. He rolls up the sleeves of his crisp white shirt to the elbows, revealing the daunting serpent tattoo and clean marks on his arm, which seem more like angryscars of passion than wounds from the field. A small part of me wonders what poor soul was his last victim.
He settles down in the armchair, between the nightstand and the desk, his left ankle casually dangling on his right knee, then lights a cigarette. Smoke fills my clean room, mixing his toxic nicotine with my pure sandalwood.
“Problem?” He lifts a shoulder.
“I was about to go to bed.”
“Go right ahead.” He waves toward the plush white cotton bedding. “I’ll keep watch. Make sure that fucker doesn’t lay a hand on you.” He points his cigarette, the embers glowing at the end of the stick, toward the door.
“My friendis not the one I’d be worried about.”
“Tell me—do you welcome all your friends to your bedroom?” He raises a brow, eyes flashing to Caden’s backpack under my desk. I glare back, refusing to answer. “How manyfriendsdo you have? If it’s more than five, I will require an itemized list.”
“What do you care? My life is none of your business,” I hiss, jutting a finger toward the door. “And leave Caden out of this. I mean it.”
“Oh, youmeanit?” He smirks. “That’ll make it easier to break his neck like a twig.” He takes a drag and exhales two rings.
My breath hitches. Surely, he can’t be serious.Is he?Maybe he is. Who knows? I have never met someone so… callous. I try not to focus on the twig part, but my feet naturally inch toward the laundry basket by the bathroom door, where my panic button is hidden in my hoodie pocket.
“I wouldn’t bother if I were you, little dove,” he tsks as my hand reaches for the lid behind my back. “I’ll put a bullet in yourfriendand haul you out of here before Grandpa downstairs gets to the first floor.”
My hand jerks away from the basket. I hate the smugsatisfaction the movement brings to his face. This is obviously not his first gig. Of course he would have checked on Jack.
“Why do you call me that?” I ask. “Little dove. What does that mean?”
“You mourn like one.” He smiles. “When you sleep.”
My lips part, jaw dropping to the floor in slow motion, eyes widening until they pop out of the sockets. His words echo in my head, my heart racing so fast, each beat hammers in my ears. Suddenly, my bedroom blurs at the edges. The only thing I see is the angry marks on his forearm. And now that Ireallysee them—the shape, the depth—I know without a doubt those marks aremine.
He was here.
