And my world narrows to green-gold eyes that I have absolutely seen before—if not in this world.
The ground goes quiet.
Like, quiet quiet.
My brain stutters.
“I speak,” he replies, and oh my God—that voice.
It’s deep. Like really deep. And it resonates within me.
A long moment passes.
“Uh.” I blink. “Hi.”
Wow. Incredible work, Alina. Truly poetic.
He studies me with an intensity that should make me uncomfortable.
It doesn’t.
It makes me hyper-aware.
Of my heartbeat.
Of the sway in the loose fence behind me.
Of how thin the barrier is between me and him and the crack yawning at his boots.
“You feel it,” he says.
His voice is amazing. Like gravel. Deep. Low. Has that rough edge like it was meant to be heard over storms.
“Feel what?” I ask, because apparently my mouth has decided we’re doing this.
“The wrongness beneath your feet.”
I bristle a little.
“I feel the unstable substrate that I’ve been hired to assess and the OSHA lawsuit waiting to happen if you don’t step back.”
One corner of his mouth almost—almost—ticks up.
“It is not your fault,” he says calmly. “This, at least, is not your doing.”
Wow, thanks, random trench-coated stranger. Ten out of ten, loved that cryptic reassurance.
I plant my hands on my hips.
“Look, I don’t know who you are, but this is an active construction site. You can’t just wander in and start communing with the fault lines.”
“I can.” He straightens to his full height.
He is enormous.
I’m five-seven in my boots and I have to tip my head back to meet his gaze.
He has to be at least six-four, maybe more.
