“Yeah,” he breathes with a firm tone.
A beat of silence passes. The gulls overhead scream, and his gaze stays locked on me like he’s trying to read something I’m not giving him.
“I thought you didn’t smoke?” I ask.
“I guess grief is a bitch sometimes.” He gives a lazy smile, mirroring sorrow and something that requires a restraining order.
I glance at the wriggling bundle of joy in his arms, a complete contradiction in the powerful arms of a sociopath.
“Since when do you have a dog?” I prompt.
He smirks faintly, charming for a second and deadly the next. “Since someone gave me one.”
“That’s vague, who?” I challenge, I don’t even know why I’m asking about a dog when I should ask what is wrong with him. But for a second, the feeling that it’s a gift from another woman is oddly uncomfortable.
His eyes flick to mine, drawing a thumb to his lip. “Does it matter? You’re asking a lot of questions today.”
“You don’t exactly scream puppy owner, that’s all.” I stare at him, feeling strange and confused. I can’t tell if it is because I am imagining him caring for a dog in his charge or because I despise his very presence.
He looks down at the pup, scratching behind its ear as if he’s trying not to smile.
“Maybe I wanted something that doesn’t talk back.”
“Charming.” I breathe, ready to turn back from where I came, but the corner of his mouth twitches up, and his gaze sharpensagain, shifting gears. His almost black hair, black shirt, and black pants matching his soul is tantalizingly haunting.
“He’s not the only one running loose lately.”
I blink. “Meaning?”
“Meaning…” He takes a step closer, his shadow cutting across mine.
“That guy you were with last night—Tyler, is it? Did he touch you?”
The question lands heavily and takes me by surprise.
“Excuse me?” I scoff.
“Just answer me, Sara,” he demands with a disapproving glare.
My chin lifts, my gaze searching his striking, threatening demeanor.
“It’s none of your business. You’re out of your mind.”
“Answer my question, Sara.” His tone rips through me.
“Yes. He touched me. And? Should I go confess to the dead for that too?” My words are seemingly unappetizing to him by the way he shifts closer.
“Where?” He bites out.
“Wh—? What?” I’m completely taken aback. If confusion was a bomb, the blast would be blowing straight through my frontal cortex.
“You heard me. Show me.”
“Here.” I place a hand on my breast and, “here—” as I descend my hand between my legs, his gaze follows lazily, and his eyes lock back with mine in a magnetic pull.
Before I can finish my sentence, my back slams against a cold iron gate. His arm bars me in place, his leg stepping over my dogs’ leash as it slips from my hand.
His firm tattooed hand rests at my throat. Not choking, but holding me there, measuring my pulse that I can’t control. Simultaneously holding the pup gently in his other arm. Theshock of his presence comes over me, and if he presses harder, he could take my breath away. Literally.
