Just a tiny bit.
“If you want them gone, just say the word.”
She moves to the bed and sits on it. Not looking at me, she asks, “Why?”
“Why what?”
She eyes me sharply. “Why me?”
“I told you the reason why.”
“But that’s not all, is it?”
Her eyes flick around the room, resting on the various touches that Stave added.
My throat tightens and I lean against the doorjamb.
Trying to look cool?
Shut up, Nightmare.
“You’re right. That wasn’t the whole reason.”
She rises and walks back to me. Peeking out from under her jeans are sparkly shoes.
Oh, they’re blue this time.
To match her shirt,I tell it.
When Chelsea is a couple of feet away, she stops and cocks her head. Her eyes search mine. “Then why did you ask? What’s the other reason?”
Tell her about me! Do it! She’ll feel bad for you. Let us put our head in her lap so she can stroke our hair.
My gaze drops and when I lift it, she’s eying me curiously. Not like she’s afraid—which is how most people look at me. But like she sees something inside me that other people don’t.
The woman who killed my father used to look at him like that. Before she murdered him.
But Chelsea isn't her. Chelsea makes roses, not corpses.
Still. I should remember that trust has killed better men than me.
I clear my throat. “It’s hard being the Nightmare King. There’s a lot of misinformation about who I am.”
She steps forward, chin up. “Then who are you?”
My fingers flex. The urge to touch her hair, her smooth skin is strong.
You can thank me for that.
I won’t.
“I’m someone with a lot of secrets,” I finally tell her.
“What kind?”
“The kind that grabs you by the throat and doesn’t let go.”
Her gaze flicks to my throat. My lips. My eyes.
