Mara stiffens at the barely concealed threat. Her fingers tighten around my wrist. Tighten…
“Though, you know what? Call the pigs,” the man goads, his laughter cold. “I hear a few even like girls like you, too. Ask around. Or maybe you can go work for Gino and learn firsthand? At least then you’d get paid for it.”
Mara’s face pales as she lets me go. “You’ll be fine, Hannah,” she insists, but she hurries from the enclosed section without me. “I’ll be watching. I won’t take my eyes off you. I promise.”
As she fades from my peripheral vision, my brain does that thing again. Shuts off. Focuses on the most important actions to perform at this moment—breathing. Standing. Staring.
The younger man is still watching me, his head cocked as his fingers continue to molest the pages of my journal. That violation stings more than any other. He’s carelessly wandering over words he couldn’t possibly understand. Mutilating phrases that have literal blood, sweat, and tears mingled within the ink. He’s mauling me with every swipe of his fingers.
And I can’t even look away. His eyes hold me captive, sparkling the more my irritation grows. Like he knows every thought I’m thinking. The hate I’m feeling.
And he’s relishing in all of it.
“Go.” He inclines his head, but again, he isn’t speaking to me.
The two men beside him share a look, but they stand, shaking their heads incredulously. “Damn. You always did have the weirdest fucking taste,” the one with the goatee murmurs, barely audible above the music.
The other man isn’t as subtle. He raises an eyebrow and looks me over, then he cranes his neck to seek out Mara standing along a nearby wall. “You traded that piece of ass for this?”
“I said, fuck off.” The younger man doesn’t take his eyes off me. His tongue traces his lower lip in a quick strike. A threat? Or a warning?
“Go,” he repeats without shifting his focus. “And leave the Chan girl to me.”
The goatee man hisses through his teeth. “Greedy fucker. You want them both?”
“You heard me.” He utilizes that iron tone again and doesn’t move an inch until the two men finally leave the section. Then he sits back and crooks one finger at me. “Come here.”
I don’t move. There’s something about being trapped like a deer in the headlights. When every muscle contracts, paralyzing you, it’s impossible to react logically. Or think. At least until something more alarming snaps you from the daze.
Like him literally snapping his fingers. Thwack!
I flinch, but my body obeys my commands again. I cross my arms and square my stance, making myself as small of a target as possible. I should run, but I can’t. My eyes won’t leave my bag. My journal. My conscience.
It’s the one possession I can’t bear to give up.
“G-Give it back.”
“She speaks.” Amusement flickers through his angular features, making me jump. His eyes are more expressive than most people’s. Like a predator’s. It’s almost too easy to tell what he’s thinking, but you’re only ever seeing half of the tale. Hunger, yes, but its presence alone is no predictor as to when he’ll finally pounce.
“Hop this way, bunny.” Again, he crooks his finger, but the motion carries a swiftness that wasn’t there before—a command lurking in the deliberate twitch of his knuckle. “Come here. Unless you want me to call your little friend back over.”
I sense it’s not a threat. He means it. He’ll dangle Mara’s welfare like a shiny toy, expecting me to jump for it.
Because I will. My feet are already propelling me toward him. Maybe it’s genetic, this inherent cowardice. This need I can’t shake to always go along with any plan, no matter how terrifying. Always.
I’m the girl perpetually depicted in horror movies. Gullible, manipulated by everyone.
By Branden.
By strangers.
By these instincts hardwired within my psyche.
To approach the figurative killer without making a sound. To find the safest spot away from him and sit, not that he seems to mind. He copies the posture of his friend, sprawled out, unconcerned. I notice he’s wearing the same dark, unremarkable clothing as the others, but one detail makes his ensemble stand out in a way theirs didn’t. My gaze fixates on his left arm, bared by a short sleeve, and I realize why.
Colors drip over the pronounced muscle, embedded in his skin. Ink? Reds. Indigo. Black. They form snippets of a scene mostly hidden beneath his shirt. The only solid detail I can make out licks down the length of his forearm in writhing tendrils—flames.
“Eyes up here, rabbit,” he warns, snapping his fingers. Rabbit? As his eyes flicker over me again, I realize what he meant. Me. As a joke?
Or a crude reference to my sweater? I glance down, eyeing the beige wool speckled with innocent white bunnies that seem to glow in the dim lighting.
“Cat got your tongue, rabbit?”
I say nothing, pursing my lips, ignoring reality. There’s an art form in silence—in shrinking down within yourself until the real you is just a blip. A memory. Completely untouchable by anyone…
Until he touches me.
The flesh of his fingertip is alarmingly soft. I almost don’t realize it’s happening at first—the brief, persistent contact disrupting my loose curls—until my nerves become electrified with his touch. Alarmed, I flinch back, nearly lurching off the couch entirely. Before my eyes, his fingers float, denied a taste of my skin.
He chuckles, leaving his hand unmoving anyway. Dark, his eyes trace the outlines of mine, hunting for a way in. I blink to keep him out, but I fail.
His smile catches me off guard, and our gazes lock. Amusement glints across the dark irises, but there’s no malice. He’s a child playing a game merely to thwart boredom, and I’m just a toy. With nothing better to do, he’s dangling me by my puppet limbs, watching me flail—all for the sake of entertainment.
“I’ll make you a deal.” He lifts my notebook from his lap, brandishing it just beyond my reach. “Read me one of your little stories, and I’ll let your friend off the hook for tonight.”
He wants a response. Demands one. His silence feels deliberate this time, nibbling away at my nerves until I have no choice but to pry my lips apart. Speak. “Why?”
He raises an eyebrow. “Her daddy owes a shit ton of money, rabbit.” He chuckles when I flinch at the nickname, hating how it sounds in his voice. A husky, teasing whisper on the verge of a growl. Rabbit. “Letting her go without a warning would be a mercy bestowed out of the kindness of my bleeding heart.”
He winks, prompting me to go against my instincts once again.
“Why is that her problem?” I croak while glancing at Mara. Lurking on the periphery, she hasn’t left me at least. Her eyes meet mine, wide and frightful, and she waves toward me in a frantic motion. Run! As if leaving would be so easy.
“Why?” His harsh bark of laughter draws my attention back to him. He forms a fist and props his chin onto it, probing deep with those merciless eyes. “I don’t know what cul-de-sac you skipped out of, but here in the real world? We pay for the sins of others, whether related to us by blood or not. It’s the way the fucking cookie crumbles. You suffer for Chan, and she’ll have to bear the weight of her daddy’s gambling addiction.”