His eyes almost twinkle at me, and I notice for the first time the laugh lines at the corners, softening that brutal beauty. “He was fine, with plenty of oxygen, though he squalled his damn head off most of the way.” He rubs his hand across the scruff on his jaw. “I just told you a laundry list of things I know about you, and you're worried about your cat in the boot?”
He holds my gaze with those unsettling gray eyes, and I notice the dark lashes framing them, ridiculously long for a man so dangerous.
I shrug.
He looks at my cat with scorn, and the expression is almost comical on that hard face. “I thought it might help the situation, not because I like cats. Does he go outside for his—needs?” Clearly, he's been stalking just me, not my cat.
“No, of course not. He’s an indoor cat that needs a litter box.”
I can't believe I'm talking about my cat's toileting habits with my kidnapper.
“Fuck's sake,” he mutters as he frowns and shoves his hands in his pockets, the movement making his biceps flex beneath all those tattoos.
A beat passes. “How long have you been watching me?”
“Long enough.”
“That's not an answer!”
His jaw clenches, and he seems to mull over the words, that muscle jumping again in a way that shouldn't be fascinating. “Since you were way too fucking young.”
My chest burns, and my heart flips over. “Too young for… for what?” I whisper. But this time, he doesn't answer.
I should be terrified. I am terrified, but underneath the fear, there's something else, something I don't have a name for, because he said he's protecting me, and those knuckles tell a story.
He's been watching me, to make sure I was… safe?
No, that's absurd. I can almost hear my mother chiding me.
Don't romanticize this, Bianca.
Get your head out of the clouds, Bianca.
This isn't a book, Bianca.
“Jesus, this is crazy,” I whisper. “You're mad, eh?”
“Aye.” He stands, and I cringe involuntarily. He towers over me, all that contained power and brutal strength, and I hate that some traitorous part of me notices the way his body moves with predatory grace. “We're all mad here,” he whispers.
I swallow hard. I didn't expect my kidnapper to take my cat, and I didn't expect him to quote Lewis Carroll.
He notices me backing away and stills, his whole body going quiet in a way that's somehow more threatening than movement. “I'm not going to hurt you, Bianca. I need you to believe that.”
“Then maybe don't kidnap me to start things off,” I whisper back.
“I had no choice.”
“I find that hard to believe.” I swallow. “We always have a choice.”
He sighs, running one tattooed hand over his shaved head in what seems like a frustrated gesture.
“Listen, love. I don’t know how else to tell you that I didn't bring you here to hurt you.”
My heart thumps, and I'm not sure why.
“Don't call me that.” My voice cracks. “You don't have the right. You don't know me.”
He smiles sadly this time, and the expression makes him look almost vulnerable, softening those brutal features. “No, lass. You don't knowme. I know you better than most people in your life, Bianca. I've watched you become the person you are. Watched you navigate that minefield of a family. Watched you try so hard to be good, to be perfect, to never make waves.”
