It’s impossible to tell when his face is hidden.
My knees go weak, and my palms are clammy with the murky memories his mask evokes.
Was he wearing it when he touched me in my bed? When he slid the clothes off my body?
Did he smirk behind it when he took my pictures?
The questions remain locked in my throat.
I can’t talk. This man sucks the air out of the room, out of my lungs.
Twenty feet separate us.
He’s dressed in black; I see that now that he’s close. A suit, a black shirt beneath it, no tie.
Ten feet. Six.
I’ve already forgotten about my perfect speech. The need to flee is suffocating. It’s all I can think of.
Damn him. He has no right to terrorize me. No right to my soul or my body, no matter how much money he shed on me.
I have to confront him. I have to say something before he comes within reach and maybe brushes his fingers over my cheek, my collarbone. Other places he shouldn’t touch.
Before he does worse.
He’s about a foot taller than me and seems to be twice as strong. He might not kill me like Mary promised, but he could still do serious damage.
All too easily, he could tear this dress off me and overpower me without breaking a sweat.
There’s only one man I want to handle me like that, and he’s not here.
Duncan isn’t the person standing too close to the platform, towering over me in a way meant to threaten.
Whose eyes glimmer as he watches me whimper and pale in silence.
Duncan would never.
I open my mouth to tell The Restorer to back off. To please, give me space. I need to breathe.
As if sensing my resilience rising, he tilts his head, inspecting me like I’m a bug under a magnifying glass.
The cruel, belittling gesture sends heat up my neck and anger rushing through my veins.
My fingers itch to slap him across the face so hard that he feels the sting through the mask.
I can’t. I won’t ruin it for Barclay and me.
Quietly, I hold firm as he begins to circle me like a shark in the water.
At first, the symbolism of it has my shoulders tensing. My head snaps left and right as I prepare myself for his attack, whenever it may come.
But in the fourth round, something shifts within him.
The way he walks, it isn’t the same. It’s less tense, more naturally confident.
Familiar.
I blink a few times, just to make sure I’m not imagining this.
