“I can,” he interrupts, still so damn calm. “The snow’s on my side, Starling, and so is the solitude of our chalet. But, please… understand this: I’m not here to frighten you.”
I let out a high-pitched laugh that doesn’t sound like me at all. “That’s funny because I’m pretty much terrified.”
Like before, my confession comes out on its own. I didn’t mean to tell him that, though it’s true, and maybe it’s good that Patrick knows I’m seconds away from losing my shit.
He studies me for a further moment, then starts to reach for the waist of the towel with his other hand. My whole body locks, totally freezing instead of fleeing like I should probably be doing, as Patrick starts to open it.
I jerk back instinctively. “Don’t.”
He pauses, cocking an eyebrow at me. For the first time, there’s something like… restraint in his expression. Something deliberate.
“I’m not going to touch you without permission,” he says quietly. “Not tonight.”
Not tonight…
Oh, Lord. The way he says that, as though him touching me is inevitable… I don’t know whether that’s for my comfort or simply another kind of control that he wants me to understand he suddenly has over me.
“I just wanted to show you something.”
This time, when I laugh, it’s more hollow than anything. “No, thanks. I’m sure I’ve seen what you’ve got under your towel before. I’m good.”
There’s that amused expression again. He huffs out his own laugh, then trails his right hand over the bulge behind the towel that I can’t pretend isn’t there. “Not quite what I meant, Starling, but I’m sure my pretty songbird will be changing her tune soon enough. Especially when she sees what I have on my back.”
Back? I can handle back. At least, IthinkI can—especially when all I’m thinking is that, the second he turns his back on me, I’m gonna get the nerve to bolt—but that’s before Patrick does just that. He turns on his heel, presenting me with his muscled backside, and I’m back to being a Noelle statue.
I’m frozen, stunned,staring. Not only is his back a thing of beauty in and of itself, but he has another tattoo taking up most of his left shoulder.
It’s apoinsettia.
Five blood-red leaves spread wide, vivid even against his damp skin. Each one is a slightly differentshade, as though the whole piece was done at different times, including one that seems too fresh to be real.
Oh, no…
I’d heard that Dragonfly killers—their enforcers—tattoo themselves with green leaves to memorialize special kills. And here I’m looking at a stranger who is wearing five red leaves on his back.
The same man who seems to think that they should mean something to me.
They don’t. Theycan’t. And yet… that doesn’t stop me from asking, “What is that?”
“A record,” Patrick says before turning his head just enough that he can watch me over his shoulder. “And a gift.”
My stomach goes tight. “A gift for who?”
“For you,” he replies.
I was afraid of that. “But I… I don’tknowyou.”
His expression shadows, going dark, like I’ve said something silly and naïve.
“Yes,” he argues. “You do.”
I press my palm to my sternum like I can hold my pounding heart in place. “Why would you… I mean, it’s a poinsettia?—”
Another quirk of his lips, a hint of pleasure returning now that I recognized his ink.
“Why, Noelle? Because you made a Christmas wish list last year,” he says, and his voice is almost gentle. “And you marked it with a poinsettia. A hint of beautyadded to a list that covered up so much ugliness… I want to give you that beauty back, Starling. I want to give youeverything.”
My stomach twists. For a million different reasons, I feel like I’m going to hurl on the floor without any cranberry to trigger me. Five minutes ago, Patrick North was a handsome cop I was getting to know over champagne. Now I’m supposed to believe that he’s still Patrick North, but he’s not a cop. He’s a… a Dragonfly, and he thinks he knows me, and,shit, he knows about my list.
