“I’m not?—”
“Sit,” he repeats, and though his voice doesn’t rise, I’m not dumb enough not to notice a direct order.He’s not asking. He’s telling.
My body wants to drop. I want to listen. And that? That terrifies me almost more than everything else.
Patrick gestures to the couch this time, an air of patience about him that, strangely enough, seems to fit this version of him. The man in the sweater with the ruffled hair and friendly eyes, he waits for me to do what I was told like he has all the time in the world.
Fine. Because, honestly, I have no other choice—and I’d bet every last cent I have that he has that gun of his hidden somewhere on him—I sit on the edge of the couch, as far away from him as possible as I can get.
Once again, he points at the poured wine.
“You don’t have to drink it,” he says, “but it might help.”
“Help with what?”
“Understanding what this past year has been like,” he says. “Understanding what I did for you, Starling.”
Starling…
I don’t move. Even as he shifts in his seat, unfolding his legs so that he can grab one of the wine glasses for himself, I stay ramrod straight on the edge of the couch.
He watches me wordlessly for a moment, then takes a small sip from his own glass before saying, “It all started because I saw you crying.”
The words hit harder than they should. I blink, unable to say anything.
That’s okay. Patrick wanted me to listen? Ilisten.
“It was at the fancy coffeehouse in the East End,” he continues. “You had your computer with you, and those tears… they were angry tears.”
My throat tightens, and because I’ve never been able to keep myself from being completely quiet when I have something to blurt out, that’s exactly what I do as I snap, “You don’t know anything about me.”
“I know you asked me to watch your laptop,” is his rasp of a reply. “I know you smiled at me like you were embarrassed for needing help. And I know that you gave me just enough time to see what it was you were working on last year.”
Oh. Oh, no. I thought… I would’ve sworn I’d never seen Patrick North before in my life. I still don’t remember his face—and you think I would since, damn it, it’s way too attractive to belong to a man this insane—but I remember the coffeehouse. I remember asking someone to watch my computer?—
“That was you,” I whisper.
He nods. Another sip before he sets it back down again. “Forgive me, Noelle. I was curious. In my line of work… it isn’t often that I get curious. Dragonflies have their orders, but when I saw those tears… I had to know what made you cry. And there they were. The five men on your wish list.” He pauses for a moment, his dark eyes gleaming with vengeance. “The five men you wanted to see get what they deserve. Trust me, Starling. Theydid. I personally made sure of it.”
Evan, who crashed on an icy road.
Grant, who drank himself to death.
Dean, who took the coward’s way out when he hung himself.
Marcus, who died at the company retreat.
And Charles, poisoned at the Evergreen & Co. holiday party…
My words are a soft mumble, slipping out without me meaning for them to. I’m not even blurting out this denial, but it escapes even so. “I… I didn’t ask you to hurt them.”
Hurt. As if that’s all this man did. If I can believe him, hekilledthem?—
His lips quirk into another of the amused grins he’s given me since his arrival last night. His eyes stay dark, steady, unblinking… the careful friendliness I noticed before is replaced by a predatory look that is only enhanced by the curve of his smile.
This is a man who wields it like any other weapon, and I don’t know what should terrify me more: that, or the gun he has to be hiding from me.
Both, I think, especially when he gets up from the couch and takes my chin between two rough fingers, lifting my head up, forcing me to look at him as he says almost reverentially, “No, Starling. Youwished.”
