Chapter 19
Chapter Nineteen
The corners of my mouth uplift in a small smile as I peer down the corridor, watching the way Max’s thighs move against his tight jeans.
Perhaps normal wouldn’t be so bad; the view certainly isn’t.
Running my finger along the edge of my wineglass, I turn my eyes back to the bar.
Ripples of yellow light from the dim, overhead lamps twinkle against a line of half-filled liquor bottles behind the bar.
The amber liquids inside cast tiny reflections against the glass shelves on which they sit.
My body jolts in alarm when a thick, muscled arm wraps around my waist. For a second, I think Max must have snuck up on me, until I look down.
Draped over my stomach is an arm clad in a black dress shirt, rolled up to the elbows.
Intricate black and gray tattoos swirl down the corded muscles of the forearm.
Like swirling shadows, they spin and curl, spreading down the wrist, and wrapping around the strong fingers of an enormous hand.
As the heat of a large chest presses against my back, my mind nearly short-circuits trying to identify the familiar scent surrounding me.
A memory lashes against the inside of my skull, making my breath catch in my throat.
Curling up in my bed, nestled in blankets that smell of warm, syrupy vanilla and rich leather.
My head swivels to the right, desperately trying to see the person holding onto me, but a stubbled chin pressed against my ear halts the movement. Searing, hot panic engulfs my chest, making my heart feel like it’s encased in flames as it hammers inside me.
Warm breath dances along the shell of my ear, sending shivers skittering down my arms. A deep, baritone voice whispers, “Did you really think this was a good idea, little bird?”
My legs begin to shake at the sound of that nickname, his name for me. My ankles quake nervously, making my high heels clink against the legs of the barstool.
“Did you really think I wouldn’t follow you here?” he continues. “That I wouldn’t come to claim what’s mine?”
My vision begins to swim. The twinkling bottles behind the bar ripple in and out of focus. The flames licking at my heart have crawled up my throat, heating my face.
“Breathe,” the voice commands. A hand presses against my lower back. The warmth of his hand seeps through the thin fabric of my dress, nestling into my bones. All of the air heaves out of my lungs with a sound somewhere between a sob and a squeal.
When my eyes refocus, they connect with those of the man behind the bar. His brows crease as his eyes narrow. “Is this guy bothering you?” he asks in a voice thick with concern.
The arm snaked around my waist squeezes and my stomach tightens in response.
My mind falters, fumbling through warring thoughts.
I could scream. I could beg for help. But at what cost?
An image flashes in front of my eyes. The memory of James’ mangled, bloody hand in a box on my kitchen floor.
I can’t be the cause of another death. If I try to get away, he could kill the bartender for trying to help. No, not could. He will kill him.
Shaking my head to ground myself, I ask, “What?” I force my cheeks to rise into a smile that feels too tight for my face. “Oh, uh, no, we’re fine,” I state in a voice that I hope conveys some level of normalcy.
When I feel his mouth against the most sensitive part of my neck, I bite down on my lower lip to hold back the desperate sound that rises from my throat.
“That’s my good girl,” he whispers against my neck.
A throbbing ache awakens in my core at the sound of his praise.
Before I have a chance to think about my actions, my head presses back into him, seeking out the warmth of his lips.
When I realize what I’ve done, my cheeks heat.
I wiggle in my seat, trying to pull away, but his arm around me is like steel holding me in place.
He clicks his tongue in disapproval before I feel his lips against my ear. The sound of his deep voice vibrates through me, sending a pulse of warmth through my belly.
“We’re leaving now,” he demands.
Attempting to wet my tongue, which suddenly feels like sandpaper, I swallow hard.
When my lips part to protest, no sound emerges.
My mouth opens and closes like a fish struggling to breathe on land.
Not trusting my voice to convey anything besides the scream that feels like it’s permanently lodged in my throat, I shake my head.
“Mmm,” he hums against the side of my head. “I’ll put it to you this way: if you don’t leave with me now, I’ll kill your date and anyone else who tries to stop me from taking you out of this bar.”
My eyes dart left and right. There are at least twenty people at the bar alone.
There could be dozens more in other parts of the building.
I don’t doubt that he would kill any one of them, perhaps a lot of them before someone could stop him.
They’d die and I’d live to see the horrific event.
Bile rises in my throat as I envision their bloodied bodies draped across the bar.
Blinking back the hot sting of tears forming in my eyes, I nod. Slowly, he releases his arm from around my waist, letting his fingers skim gently over my stomach. The heat at my back recedes as he steps back. Closing my eyes, I let out a slow, purposeful exhale before turning around to face him.
Opening my eyes, I take in his broad chest. The muscles strain against the fabric of his shirt. Slowly moving my gaze upward, I note the large, black rose tattooed on his neck. The delicate flower is somehow menacing in its appearance. How many tattoos does he have? What scars do they hide?
Since he stands nearly a foot taller than me, my line of sight stops at his neck. Something inside me demands that I lift my head and look at his face, but I can’t. I’m afraid of what I’ll see. Does he look like a monster? I pinch my eyes closed, refusing to look.
His hand touches my cheek. I flinch, expecting pain that doesn’t come. For a moment he stills, his hand lingering on my face.
“Shh,” he whispers, “it’s okay.”
Then he gently caresses a line from my temple down my jawline. He pinches my chin between his thumb and forefinger, tilting my head toward him.
In a tone that can't be construed as anything but a demand, he says, “Look at me.”
There’s a screeching voice in the back of my head that begs me to keep my eyes closed, to shut it all out, to go to that place inside my mind where everything is quiet and safe.
But there’s something else, too. Another voice that tells me to look.
Some incessant need that demands that I do so.
This broken thing inside of me that isn’t afraid of the monster.
This nagging desire that wants it to come closer.
My eyelids peel back and my mouth falls open at the sight of the man in front of me.
Thick, black hair falls against his forehead, seemingly the only part of him that looks soft.
His face is made up of hard lines and sharp features.
Dark stubble lines his strong jaw and full lips.
Icy blue eyes stare back at me. He leans forward, his eyes never leaving mine.
Staring into his eyes feels like falling into a frozen lake.
Shards of crystalline ice in shades of lighter and darker blues create a jagged path into his black pupils.
He’s both terrifying and astonishingly beautiful at the same time.
My lungs tighten, the feeling similar to the first time I saw an enormous bobcat in the wild.
I don’t want to take my eyes off of him, but it’s not just out of fear.
There’s this odd feeling when you see something breathtaking that could easily kill you.
Some unknown part of you eases, like you might accept your end at the hands of something that beautiful.
I’m startled out of my daze when he pulls my coat from the bar and wraps it around my shoulders.
He doesn’t move away as I shove my arms into the sleeves and pull the warm fabric tight around my chest. No longer trusting my ability to form coherent sentences, I remain quiet, allowing him to grab my arm and lead me toward the door.
Pausing in front of the door, I ask, “Shouldn’t I at least tell my date?”
His mouth pulls into a grin. “Don’t worry. He already knows.” He nods his head toward the bar.
I look up to find Max standing at the end of the bar with his lips downturned and brow furrowed in confusion.
My mouth opens, an apology on the tip of my tongue, but before I can voice it, my chin is jerked forward by a strong hand.
I look up into those stormy, blue eyes a second before his lips crash into mine.
He kisses my closed lips with an unexpected softness, pressing his pillowy lips against mine. His arm wraps around my lower back, pulling me into him. I gasp as my breasts press against the hard planes of his chest. He uses that to his advantage, pushing his tongue past the open seam of my lips.
His tongue skims over mine. The sweet and spicy taste of peppermint and whiskey tangle in my tastebuds, the heady mixture shocking my senses. My nose bumps his as I press myself closer to him, tangling my tongue with his.
The second that my brain registers that I’m kissing him back, I pull away. What am I doing? This guy is a psycho but the flood of liquid heat between my legs tells me that my body doesn’t care.
Squeezing my thighs together, I shift my stance, desperately trying to release the building pressure in my core with friction. His lips pull into a devilish smirk that makes my cheeks heat and my gaze drop to the floor.
I don’t dare look back at Max while the arm around my back pulls me outside.
The monster at my side presses himself close to me and begins leading me down the sidewalk.
A gust of cold air whips at my face, pulling me out of my lust-induced stupor.
My feet stop moving, my heels driving downward into the concrete to stop us.
I shove my arms against his torso, but it’s like trying to shove a brick wall.
“You’re coming with me whether you walk or I carry you,” he states plainly.
My body trembles. Alone with him against the backdrop of a dark city night, a new fear arises inside me. One that causes burning tears to well up in my eyes. I’m trapped.