Or murder, for that matter?
He didn’t,the loyal voice inside my head reminds me.
The creak of the black floorboards sounds just barely louder than the drumbeat of my pulse in my ears.
When I turn my head, Sylvan is there. He folds his arms and leans against the thick oak bookshelves, the picture of ease. In black joggers and a white sweater that hugs every muscle, he looks pristine, despite the late—or early—hour.
“You don’t need to be here.” I rise from my crouch, leaving Carl Jung behind on the lower shelves. “Tasia might want your comfort, though.” I hate the jealousy that hits my own ears, but I need solitude.
“I don’t want Tasia,” Sylvan says casually. As if those words don’t mean something to me. “I’ve got you right here.”
“You don’t have me.”
“Oh, and he does?” We both know he means Faust. Faust, whom I can’t see, can’t place in the dim lighting of the bookstore. He’s lurking though, isn’t he, because that’s who he is.
Predatory. The perfect murderer. It would surprise me less if he were the killer.
“He owns you, that’s what you’re saying? And I’m just, what? Your little fuck toy to summon when you need to feel something more?”
I don’t know where this is coming from and I’m too tired to care. I narrow my eyes. “I never once summoned you, Frostbite.”
“Oh, we’re going with the nicknames from people who don’t know me? In that case, tell me you don’t ever want me inside that tight cunt again and I’ll walk out right now.”
“And go to her?”
“What’s it matter to you? I know a whore when I see one.”
Faust is still silent. Listening. Chilling.
I clench my teeth and lift my chin. “In that case, you’ve got what you wanted. Get the fuck out.”
He pushes off from the bookshelf and for a moment, I think he’ll listen. Leave. Maybe Faust will go with him. Maybe whatever fight he’s been dying for, he’s gotten it, and he realizes I’m right. He’s done here.
With me.
But he doesn’t walk away.
He steps deeper into the aisle.
Closer to me.
I don’t back up, but my heart pounds hard in my chest.
Another step. Another.
Then he’s there, and I twist, my spine to the beams between shelves, him crowding my space. He lifts one hand and I flinch, but he places it above my head on the shelving, creating a cage with his body.
There’s a frown marring his pretty mouth. “Why did you flinch?” he asks quietly, leaning down, breathing my air. “Who hurt you?”
I swallow, hard, but summon all of my ice. All of my composure. “I don’t need you to save me.”
His glacial eyes search mine. “What if I want to?”
“You’re wasting it on the wrong girl.”
He presses his other hand beside me, hip level, and steps closer. My breasts graze his torso, and I have to crane my neck back to hold his gaze. “Nothing I’ve spent on you is a waste.”
“Why do you want to fight tonight?” I keep my hands by my side; my fingers curled into tight fists.
