Finally, I sigh in defeat and look up, meeting his watchful gaze directly. “I don’t have
He raises an eyebrow. “Did I ask for money?”
“I don’t have anything else you might want either,” I snap.
“I doubt that…” He pointedly eyes the neckline of my dress, and I shift uncomfortably. It’s cut differently than my tried and true sweaters, displaying more of my collarbone and a glimpse of the flesh beneath. I can’t stop myself from crossing my arms over my chest, and he flashes that dangerous grin in triumph.
“In fact, I can think of a few things you could offer—”
I slam the ledger shut and turn away as if just telling him to leave could make it true.
But he doesn’t. Neither does he creep toward my corner to drill in his taunt—and that’s the worst part. I have to endure him, but without the tools I’m used to utilizing.
Silence and the safety of my own head don’t work where he is concerned.
His breathing is too noisy, grating and raspy. His scent is overpowering, sneaking
into my lungs with every breath. Around him, my thoughts don’t form the protective wall I’m used to hiding behind. They fracture. Splinter.
And he breaks through easily.
“I want to see you hop, bunny,” he murmurs, just when I think I might scream to counteract his presence. “Without the dowdy little sweaters or the boring little mask. I want to prove you wrong. I didn’t run last time. I just gave you a taste. It’s up to you if you want more but with no excuses. No chance to cry assault.”
I bristle at his tone, wrapping my arms around my waist even tighter. If I hope to find
comfort in the action…I don’t. His gaze slips beneath the barrier, creeping over me without permission. I can practically feel his gaze rasping along my skin.
“What are you talking about?”
“Tonight,” he repeats. “Dragon’s Head. You can even bring your little friend if you want.”
Dragon’s Head. The name conjures the image of neon lights and raucous dancing.
“The club?” I frown. “Why would I go there with you?”
He laughs, and his steps resonate through the floor. Alarmed, I turn to watch him move, but he takes his time, giving me every chance to cower and back away.
I don’t recognize the way my breathing hitches as he comes closer. How my nerves tense as he raises his hand, deliberately inching toward my cheek.
“D-Don’t touch me—”
“I have touched you,” he reminds me. “Don’t kid yourself into believing you don’t want
“More of what?” I force myself to meet his gaze only to regret it.
I wish his eyes gleamed in that mocking, cruel way, but their stare is flat and empty.
“More of what could happen the next time I have my fingers inside you.”