It’s a subtle shift in the air that finally gives him away.
I glance up. He’s standing at the edge of the clearing, motionless, his gaze already on me, as if he’s been there longer than I realized. Annoyance darkens his expression.
Good.
I love that look on him.
At the sight of him, my heart launches into a sprint, but I don’t let it show. I lift my chin and meet his stare. Then I deliberately drop my eyes back to the book.
Carrson stalks over to the edge of my blanket and glares. His shadow spills over me, blocking what little warmth the sun provides.
“Get out,” he growls. His voice is low, fierce in a way that makes the words louder than if he’d shouted.
“No.” I push up to sitting.
He kicks dirt onto the fabric. Dry leaves and twigs scatter across it, catching in the folds.
“Hey!” I protest, glaring at him. “Didn’t your mom teach you any manners?”
“I don’t have one, so no,” he snaps, kicking again. “There are a million places to go in these woods,” he says. “Find somewhere else.”
It isn’t a suggestion. It’s a command, delivered like he’s used to being obeyed.
“I like it here.” I drop my gaze back to my book, as if I’m completely unbothered. Let’s see how he handles being ignored.
He stomps the ground, so hard it kicks up a puff of dust.
I don’t react. Don’t even look up. I reach out and turn a page as if he’s background noise instead of a six-foot threat with a temper.
“Christ.” He spins away, ripping his shirt off with one hand. The muscles of his back shift with the motion, all those defined curves and lines. My eyes betray me immediately. They fly to him and then stick.
God. He really is beautiful.
That’s when I notice it, a cross-shaped mark right over his shoulder blade. I don’t know how I missed it the day before. It’s almost as big as my palm except it’s not a normal cross. Each arm is equal length. It’s more of a plus sign, like when you do addition. I squint, trying to figure it out. It’s too symmetrical to be a scar and not dark colored, so not a tattoo.
What could carve that shape in someone’s skin?
Carrson goes to the knives first, pulling them free from the trunk before pausing with his back to me, inspecting the blades for so long that I fidget under the silence.
Finally, he turns, lifting one. “Did you touch these?”
“Me?” I feign innocence, widening my eyes. “No.”
He looks at me, my hands, my face. Then back to the knives. His frown deepens. He knows.
I peer over the top of my book, watching as he grips each knife in a fist, knuckles whitening, and turns his body my direction. Nervous energy spikes up my spine.
This is what I wanted, isn’t it?
He takes a step closer, and the knife catches the light, blinding me. Carrson balances the blade lightly in each hand, the way I tried earlier and failed. His hand lifts, and I have to remind myself:
If I flinch, I lose.
If I run, he wins.
So I stay.
Carrson’s fingers tighten around the knife, tendons shifting. The tip points right at me.
