Chapter 8
Bás Dorcha
brIGIT
With a fresh pedicure, I stroll into my apartment just past sundown, setting my purse on the table.
The time-release fragrance fills the air as I strip off my work clothes and change into sweats and a long-sleeve shirt.
The summer sun sets behind the mountains, leaving my apartment awash with warm, golden light.
The next thirty minutes I spend cooking myself something to eat, and enough to take to work tomorrow.
There's something comforting, soothing about the process of cooking. I get to take pieces of one thing and change them, form them into something completely new. The scent fills my kitchen, the herbs and spices mixing with the lemongrass as the chicken sizzles and the pasta boils.
Pouring myself a glass of red wine, I sink into one of the four chairs at my kitchen island, content to sit while I wait until I need to flip the chicken and stir the noodles. Against my own rules, I open my email to check for any after-hours emergencies.
Nothing.
Satisfied, I scroll through social media, noting the handful of new friends I've made from Friday and all the photos they posted, tagging me and the Mingle official page.
The two minutes roll by quickly, and I find myself working on my dinner again, reflecting on all the fun I had a few nights back.
It’s been both nerve-wracking and fun to get more time with them over the last few weeks, even if it’s mostly drinking at Mingle and then sneaking away while they do the same. Their friends are a blast— well, maybe at this point I should start considering them my friends, too.
With the stove off, I drain my pasta and toss it in an olive oil-lemon sauce before scooping the chicken on top, turning to settle into my seat with my Gamay and enjoy some trash TV.
As I spin towards the island, my body goes cold, frozen in place with a glass of wine in one hand and the plate of food in the other.
There, standing silently on the far side of my kitchen, leaning against the wall, is a man dressed in all black. A man who certainly shouldn't be here, and I didn't even hear come in.
My heart thrums, addled with fear, my body frozen with it as he makes no effort to move, happy to stand there and watch me react to his presence.
After a moment of terror, I force my mind to work again, trying to take note of every single detail, ensuring there's a chance of justice should I survive this encounter.
Maybe he's just a thief, and he happened to catch me at home instead of out. Robberies occur every day in a city this large. I'll just give him what he wants, memorize every detail, and let him go to be found later.
The strange man is at least six feet two, his arms crossed against his chest as he stays still as a statue. Tattoos span one of his hands before it disappears under the sleeve of his jet black hoodie.
My eyes travel higher, not sure where to look first or where I'll find the best evidence as to who this person is.
In the shadow of his neck, dark and muddled, there's another tattoo, and as I realize what it is, my blood runs cold.
A fucking vampire bat. Mouth wide and ready to strike, a predator stamped on the flesh of a monster.
I don't allow myself to linger too long on the dark threat lying in the art on his body, hoping to memorize every inch of his face in case I have a chance to report it to the police later.
However, the chances of that happening have just dwindled thanks to the indicator of who the man standing before me is.
As our eyes meet, his are so warmly amber that in the dying light of day, they appear the color of fire, burning me as he watches me carefully, his eyes landing on my full hands.
His dark hair, even as short as it is, frames his stunning features, the sharp widow's peak drawing attention to his strong nose and gorgeous eyes instead of hiding them.
Against my better judgment, I note that, regardless of the fact that he broke into my home and is standing unwelcome in my kitchen, he's mesmerizing.
Every inch of his face looks sculpted by the kindest hands. His jawline is sharp, his cheekbones high and angular. Even his fucking eyebrows defy all logic, the dark slashes above his eyes both harsh and smooth at the same time.
"Smells good," he gestures with his chin to my plate, one side of his lips lifting in a wicked smile as if he can smell the fear building beneath my skin.
But I refuse to show just how rattled I am. If he's here to hurt me, which he must be, my terror will only be part of the fun for him.
I should drop something and fight back.
I should throw it at him.
I should— okay, wait. What am I thinking? I have a gun. I just need to slow down and find a way to get to it.
Hold on. I know this man. Who he really is.
But if I reveal that, there’s a good chance this gets worse for me.
His head tilts to the side slowly, his eyes dripping down my body before traveling back up. “Do you know who I am?”
With a shake of my head, I take a single step back. He tracks the motion like a predator, so motionless it's uncanny.
“Only that you’ve been on the news a lot lately," I fight to keep my voice from trembling, pointedly looking at the TV I was about to turn on before he startled me.
"Yeah?" As he steps closer to me, that taunting smile grows, giving me the distinct impression of a fox watching a rabbit it knows is already caught. His tone is casual, every syllable floating on his silken voice like a caress as they reach my ears, "What do they say about me?"
"You're dangerous."
He nods, raising a single brow as he comes closer, "And?"
I'm completely frozen in his gaze, trapped in the eye of a monster and unable to snap out of the hypnosis, "You killed people."
"And yet..." he comes closer, his eyes drifting across my face, searching, burrowing into my skin with his intensity. "You don't seem all that afraid of me."
"From what I understand, your victims don't get much warning."
His smile grows, splitting his lips into a full grin that's all bright white teeth and harsh lines, his overly sharp canines becoming more apparent the closer he comes.
As he edges into my space, an utterly debilitating scent washes over me, making my eyes flutter against my will.
Jesus Christ. I don't even know how to describe it.
Something floral but citrusy, like Earl Grey tea and jasmine, deepened into utter masculinity by the drenched woody notes.
He smells like every decadent sexual fantasy in existence come to life, while looking like every nightmare made flesh.
And he knows it, if the arrogance in his smile is any indication.
"No. They don't."
With a nervous swallow, I step back again, attempting to escape his proximity and how it sends confusing signals both to my brain and between my legs.
"Then it speaks to reason that you're not here to kill me, Mr. Fomori.” I realize my mistake the moment it slips from my lips, the admission of his real name. Shit. Maybe he won’t notice.
I have to get my hands on my gun, but that means letting him out of my sight.
I won't be able to find the gun hidden in my cupboard by feel alone.
Swallowing down my fear, I turn toward the cupboard, "Do you want a glass of wine? "
A throaty chuckle floats into the air behind me, "Sure."
Breathing out a sigh of relief, I open the cupboard, digging past the glass, my open hand landing where there should be a little pistol and coming up empty.
"You won't find it," he taunts. When I turn to face him, he pulls up his shirt with one hand, flashing the ridiculously toned and artfully decorated muscles across his lower abdomen, using his free hand to pull my gun from his waistband, waving it back and forth with practiced ease. "I'll still take the wine, though."
Asshole.
"It's in the fridge."
Without putting the gun away, he takes a step back, turning to open my refrigerator and take the recently opened bottle of red wine, holding it out by the neck, giving me a better look at the snakes trailing down his fingers and thumb.
Grabbing a glass to match my own, I tentatively reach for the outstretched Gamay, my fingers shaking and my eyes locked not on him, but the weapon in his hand.
As I grab the base, he releases, but doesn't make any movements to put distance between us, instead leaning against the island, far too close for my comfort.
"How long have you been in here?" I ask as I pour the light red liquid into the glass.
He doesn't answer for a moment, waiting until he can take a sip and leave me metaphorically on the edge of my seat.
"Long enough to see your little dance moves while you cook," his eyes dip deviantly down my body again before meeting my gaze. "Adorable, by the way."
Heat builds in my cheeks, part fury, part fear, and all humiliation.
"I'm calling the police," I announce, pulling my phone from my pocket to do just that. "I'm sure they'll be very interested to know a fucking fugitive is in my home."
His smile turns vicious as he comes closer, resting his armed hand next to mine on the island, the subtle tap of the gun hitting the marble sending shockwaves of fear up my spine.
Seeming completely unaffected by the threat of violence between us, he stands near enough that our chests almost touch, tilting his head down to watch all the emotions my face must flit through as he speaks, "I'm afraid you're mistaken, Brigit.
" The syllables of my name roll off his wicked tongue in a sonnet, a taunt, and an invitation to sin by the devil himself.
He leans in close enough that I can feel the heat coming from his mouth when he whispers, "I'm a free man. "
My heart and breath stutter.