And if they had any idea what he was capable of, eye-fucking him would be the last thing on their minds.
He walks up to me with his hands in his pockets, looking entirely too comfortable in my space. Those dark amber eyes track over me slowly, taking inventory, and I feel completely exposed despite the fact that I’m fully clothed. Having him here, in my carefully controlled space, is making every single one of my nerve endings fire all at once.
How the fuck did he find me?
“What are you doing here?” I manage, narrowing my eyes at him, as I flash him my fakest customer service smile.
He tilts his head and smirks as if he finds my reaction amusing. “You never answered my text.”
My smile drops and I press my lips together. “What?”
“Did you get home okay?” He explains, his voice low. “The night we met. I asked. You never answered.”
My throat tightens, and I glare at him. “That was over a week ago.” I hiss.
“I know.” His eyes linger on my face, cataloging every detail. “I still want my answer. So, did you get home okay?”
I stare at him and try to pretend like my stomach isn’t flipping in on itself.
“I did.” I say tightly, crossing my arms over my chest. “As you can see.”
The defensive posture does nothing to help. If anything, it just makes me more aware of how close he is and how much bigger he is than me.
He takes another step closer, and his eyes catch on my cheekbone. On the fading bruise I spent twenty minutes covering with concealer this morning.
“You’re covering it with makeup.”
“Yeah.” I say quickly. “But it’s mostly healed.”
“Show me.”
I take a step back. “Excuse me?”
“The bruises.” He says, his voice calm and almost conversational. “The ones they gave you. The ones you're covering with a turtleneck in the middle of August. I want to see them.”
Heat crawls up my neck. “No. Absolutely not.”
“Why not?”
“Because this is a business.” I hiss, grasping for any excuse that creates distance. “And you’re a customer. You can’t just?—”
He moves.
One minute he’s on the other side of the counter. The next, he’s rounding it and backing me against the shelves behind the register.
“Echo—”
His hand comes up to my face and I freeze. He trails his fingers down the side of my face, and his touch is so gentle and so unexpected that it makes my breath catch. His thumb ghosts over the fading bruise on my cheek, and when I tense up, something dark flashes in his eyes.
“It still hurts.” He murmurs, more to himself than to me.
I need to push him away. I need to tell him to get the fuck out of my store. Instead, I’m rooted in place, watching him touch me as my heart pounds erratically in my chest.
His fingers slide down and slowly trace the side of my neck, coming to a pause on the edge of my turtleneck. He swallows as his eyes bore into the black fabric around my neck, then, ever-so-slowly, he tugs it down to reveal the marks there.
The bruises have faded to a sickly yellowish-green, but they’re still visible. Still a reminder of how close I came to dying that night. His jaw tightens as he traces them with his fingers.
“They put their hands on you here, too.” It’s not a question.
