Page 4
That does earn a real reaction. The ghost of amusement at the edge of his mouth, he steps closer, and my spine presses a little flatter against the tree.
I can see his face even more clearly now, and those eyes—Christ.
It should be illegal for anyone to have eyes like that and still be allowed in public unmonitored.
He studies me for one long second, then another, and when he speaks again, his voice is lower. “You have a beautiful face,” he says. “So I decided to keep it.”
Keep it?
As in on paper? As in artistically?
I narrow my eyes. “That sounded significantly more threatening than I think you meant it to.”
His gaze drops to my mouth, then returns to my eyes. “Did it?”
Yes. And why the hell is that making my pulse trip over itself like an idiot? I’m blaming the black eyes. They’re clearly interfering with my brain function.
I straighten away from the tree, just enough to reclaim some dignity. “You’re very strange.”
“So are you.”
“You’ve known me for thirty seconds.”
“And you’ve already thought about stabbing me at least twice.”
Oh. So he noticed.
Something dark and satisfied passes through his expression, there and gone so fast I almost miss it.
“What is wrong with you?”
“A lot,” he says. “Now be good. Turn your head for me, yeah?”
A hot, violent little thrill runs up my spine.
Not because I like being told what to do. Let’s be clear. I don’t. I’d rather chew glass.
But there is something so absurdly audacious about him, so calm in the face of my mounting hostility, that it short-circuits the part of me built for normal reactions. Most people back off when I look at them a certain way. This one stands there looking at me like I’m already his subject and my compliance is merely delayed, not in doubt.
I should be offended. I am offended. I’m also, against my will and better judgment, fascinated.
So naturally, I do the only reasonable thing. I glare at him like I’m mentally picking out a good spot to dump his body. “Did you just tell me to be good?”
His expression doesn’t change, but something in his eyes deepens. “Would you rather be difficult?”
I’m debating whether I should stab him.
My hand slips behind me, fingers brushing the knife tucked into the back of my belt, and for one moment I feel sane again. But before I can decide which flavor of homicide I’m in the mood for, he sighs.
Like I’m the difficult one.
Then he steps closer.
My fingers clamp around the knife handle before I even realize I’ve moved, pulling it just far enough to clear its sheath. Then his hand lifts toward my face, and my entire body reacts like he’s about to hit me. I flinch, my shoulders locking, the blade nearly halfway out before my mind can catch up.
Don’t touch me.
That thought hits like a gunshot.
