I nearly throw up.
Itishim. Theo Shorn. I recognize him from that grainy, black-and-white photograph I saw on my phone. He has the same heavy-browed eyes, the same full mouth and high cheekbones. His hair’s different, obviously. And he’s bigger and fully grown. But I can see the impression of that boy in his features.
I plaster my spine to the wall, my heart hammering. Theo’s brow furrows, and he studies me with that same dark intensity.
Then he says, “Don’t be afraid.”
“You broke into my house!” I shriek, even though that’s not why I’m afraid. If he’s a Hunter, then he’s a killer. And I don’t want to die tonight.
“I wanted to see you,” he signs.
“Why?”
It comes out as a shout, and he jolts a little and lunges toward me, which makes my fear spike again. But he just puts his hand on the wall beside my head and leans in close. I smell pine needles again, and something steely, like petrichor. His hair may be lank, but he doesn’t smell dirty. He smells like the lake. Like something wild.
He leans closer to me. I don’t move. I’m afraid that if I move, he’ll kill me.
His lips part. His eyes gleam. His tongue flashes, a brief spark of pink.
Then his rough fingers brush my cheek, and my breath explodes out of me in a soft, pathetic little whimper. His jaw tightens when he hears it, but all he does is brush my hair behind my ear. Then he trails his fingers down the side of my neck. It feels?—
Good, honestly. It feels fucking good as he traces his hand over my collarbone. There’s something tentative and exploratory in his touch, like he can’t quite believe I’m real.
His hand stops on my upper arm, and I force myself to look up at him.
He’s staring at me with an expression I’ve never seen on a man. Hunger. Restraint. Fire. I don’t know what to make of it, except?—
Except it sends heat flushing between my thighs.
“Please,” I whisper. “Please don’t kil?—”
I don’t get the plea out, though. Because Theo Shorn kisses me.
Well, he presses his mouth against my mouth. I freeze, not knowing what to do. It’s not forceful, the way he does it. It’s just his mouth on mine, soft and gentle.
I can’t remember the last time a man kissed me. A year. Two years? Men never have what I need. I learned that quickly enough, how fucked up my fantasies are. It’s easier to be alone.
But he’ll have it. A Hunter will have it.
The thought is sudden and treacherous. But it’s also why I part my lips. Or maybe it’s because he smells like pine sap, like mountain air. Maybe it’s the slightly forceful grip he has on my forearm. Maybe I’ve lost my mind.
But I open my mouth to him.
It’s just a small movement, but he makes a surprised noise in the back of his throat, and then a kind of low growl that rumbles through my belly. Then he tilts his head and slides his tongue over mine and pushes one hand up in my hair, his fingers tight against my scalp.
The way he kisses is slow, almost tentative, but I can feel a power pulsing behind it. When he shifts his body against mine, pinning me to the wall, a hard ridge digs into my thigh, and my clit flares to life. A soft moan hums in my throat.
I don’t want him to stop kissing me. Which is crazy. I know it’s crazy. But I can feel myself melting into him. His warm, exploratory mouth. His rough hands on my arm and in my hair. The strong heat of his body sandwiching me against the wall.
When the kiss ends, he’s the one to end it. He pulls away, staring down at me with those icy-blue eyes, and I see it again. The boy in the photograph, all grown up.
“Are you really the Theo Shorn from the ghost story?” I whisper. “The one who died when he was seventeen?”
The man nods.
Fear tears through me again, evaporating any lingering heat from his kiss. I jerk away, squirming out of his grip. He letsme go, I’ll give him that, although his icy gaze follows me as I stumble away from him.
“You don’t look dead,” I say, trying to keep my voice light.
