by T. L. Martin
Finally, he pushes off the wall with his hands, taking a step toward me that’s filled with intention. This time, I do stumble back, straight into my dresser. A sharp corner of the cherry wood digs into my back, and I wince. He doesn’t stop until he’s standing close enough that the front of my shirt rubs lightly against his, creating an electric friction that bounces between our bodies and makes my breath hitch.
Oh, God. It hits me then that, somehow, I’ve gotten too comfortable with him. Assuming I can make demands and get away with it. It’s true that he’s only ever been gentle with me before, but I can tell from the everlasting coldness in his dark eyes that gentle is not likely a word that comes naturally to him. I have no idea what he’s about to do. What he can do. The true extent of what he’s capable of.
“Please,” I hear myself whisper, my voice shaky, my eyes on the only thing in my line of sight—his T-shirt covered chest. I don’t know what I’m asking for, pleading for. For him to leave? Not to hurt me?
When I feel him press closer, his thighs rubbing against mine in the movement and his head leaning down until surprisingly soft lips brush my ear, every muscle in my body freezes. I’m a statue. I can’t breathe. Can’t think. All I can do is wait. Wait to see what he will do.
When he finally speaks, it’s quieter than a whisper. A gentle caress of silk, his breath warm on my neck. “Do you think I want to be here?” There’s a vibration from the low hum of his voice, and it sends a shiver through me. “That I sought you out?”
The questions catch me off guard. He’s not here by choice?
“Believe me,” he breathes—half whisper, half growl, “if I could leave right now, I would.” I swallow, a lump forming in my dry, tight throat. There’s a strange hint of torment lacing his voice. A quiet desperation. I want to look up at him, see his eyes when he speaks, but he’s still got me caged against the dresser, his lips so close to my ear.
Without warning, the bathroom door swings open and Bobby steps out, looking like he just splashed water over his face and hair. He scrubs a hand over his eyes and jaw and gazes at me innocently. Oh, Bobby. He’s entirely unaware that there’s a 6’4” man trapping me where I stand, no more than four feet away from him.
As Death’s body stiffens, hard muscle contracting against my chest, hips, and thighs, I try my best to relax my own body—no easy feat. But I know how strange it’ll appear if I don’t, standing against the dresser as though I’m . . . well, trapped here. I let out a low, uneven breath and try to pull off an easy smile when I glance at Bobby. He grins back, still clueless, and wanders past me, toward the loveseat at the foot of the bed.
I take the opportunity of his back being turned to hiss at Death and shove my hands against his chest.
I still don’t know what he might do to me, and the fear over that hasn’t completely diminished, but he has to know as well as I do how suspicious things will look to Bobby if he keeps me here like this. Does someone like Death care about arousing suspicion? I don’t know. I guess I’m about to find out.
He takes the hint and backs off, but only enough to allow me some wiggle room. He lifts his arms until they’re placed on either side of my own, gripping the dresser with his hands and thereby keeping me blocked in. Finally, I’m able to shift my position and lift my chin so I meet his gaze. But he’s not looking at me. In fact, with the way his head’s now angled toward the wall as he grinds his jaw, I’d even go so far as to say he’s trying very hard to avoid looking at me.
“So,” Bobby says, his voice so relaxed and carefree I could almost laugh. I turn my head to the right so I can see him, peering above the strong arm that locks me in place. “You got any plans tonight?”
“Um . . .” I don’t know why, but I find myself glancing up at those cloudy, dark eyes before me, searching for an answer in them. Do I have plans? Will he be here all night, or will he be able to leave soon? Do I actually want him to leave just yet? I can never seem to place the conflicting sensations his presence sends rippling through me.
“Well?” Bobby’s voice draws my gaze back to him.
“Sorry, yeah. I mean, no, but I’m exhausted from cleaning all day. I really wanna just stay in, relax.”
“Hmm.” Bobby looks thoughtful, glancing away for a second and brushing his thumb over his chin. “Yeah, wasn’t sure if you’d be workin’ today. Sorry about that, stopping by without notice.”
I smile half-heartedly, finding it impossible to focus on anything other than the large, unforgiving biceps caging me in, the steady rise and fall of the chest directly in front of my face. “No worries,” I manage to mutter.
“You know, if you got a new phone I could just text you beforehand.”
“Uh-huh.” My voice is fainter than usual, and it sounds strange even to my own ears. “Think I—think I need—”
The arms caging me in suddenly drop as the man before me takes a step back. He lets out a ragged breath and rubs a hand behind his neck, then finally—reluctantly?—meets my gaze. “This would be better for everyone if the guy left. Right now,” he says softly. There’s no growl this time. No simmering anger. It comes out almost like a gentle suggestion.
“I really need to rest right now,” I begin vaguely, my eyes still locked on clouds of black and grey, my palms pressing against the dresser behind me. “Those cramps . . .”
I hear Bobby let out a sigh, and the creak of the loveseat as he stands. “And that’s my cue,” he says, amusement in his tone. When he strolls toward me, I stiffen, unsure what to do. He walks right next to me, almost touching Death’s arm in the process. “Better let you go for the night. Can I see you tomorrow?”
I nod without thinking, just needing him to leave. He reaches a hand up and tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. Once again, I can’t breathe, watching him barely miss making contact with the other man before me. A man who suddenly looks ready to kill again, jaw locked and eyes hard. He doesn’t move though, not in the least, as though daring Bobby to come closer.
I inhale a sharp breath and angle my head to see Bobby fully, hoping I sound sure and calm when I say, “Tomorrow. We’ll have lunch.” I even attempt a smile.
Bobby nods and lowers his hand. “Great. Lunch it is.” He turns and walks toward the door. When his fingers squeeze the handle, he looks back with a parting smile.
Then he’s gone.
And suddenly, it’s just me . . . and Death.
Chapter 18
One second.
Two seconds.
Three.
The two of us are having the most intense staring contest of my life, as though winning is nothing less than a matter of survival. An invisible rope harnesses his gaze to mine, preventing me from pulling away. His arms may not be boxing me in any longer, but with less than two feet of space between us, they may as well be. The heat radiating off his body coats my skin in a light sweat. I don’t want to be the first to look away, but I can’t take this.
Whatever this is.
I need distance between us. I need to be able to think. To breathe.
Just when I open my mouth to say something—anything—he turns away and adds a few more feet of space between us, running a hand through his wild hair before bringing it back down to brush over his face. His warmth on my skin fades with the distance, cooling me slightly, and a rush of oxygen bursts through my lungs. With his back still facing me, I can feel the tension coursing through his body, see the defined lines of his shoulders and back tightening. There’s so much turmoil boiling inside of him, I can’t help but wonder what’s racing through his mind right now.
I’m the first to speak. “How long have you been here? In my room?”
After a pause, he slowly turns. “Hours, possibly. I don’t know.” His cold, expressionless eyes are looking at me, his jaw hard. Whatever war was waging inside him when Bobby was here has been shoved down and locked away.
Hours. Hours of this man alone in my bedroom. Jesus.
“And you’re . . . stuck here?”
He pushes out a rigid breath, yet his tone is under remarkable control, calm and collected. Such a contrast from just a few short moments ago. “It would seem that way.”
“What are you going to do?”
The low, humorless chuckle that sounds from deep in his throat takes me by surprise. It doesn’t reach those steel eyes. “Lou, is it?”
I try to ignore the foreign, tugging sensation stirring in my chest at hearing my name on his lips for the first time. Somehow, it feels both intimate and threatening coming from him. “Yes.” I lift my chin, hoping I seem as sure of myself as he does himself. “That’s my name.”
“Where I’m from—it’s not like this place.” He inches toward me, but only slightly. Something about his movements feels reserved, like he’s holding back. Still, it’s enough to spike my heart rate again. “I don’t know the rules here.” He curses under his breath and swipes his hair back from his forehead. “I’ve never spent . . . time here. Not like this. This is all very new to me.”
“Where you’re from? Where is that, exactly?”
With eyes of black ice and a voice just as deadly, he answers, “You don’t really want to know.” After a beat he adds, “No one would.”
Something about the intensity rattling through his tone sends another chill over me. It’s laced with warning, and I find myself agreeing with him. He’s right; I don’t want to know.
“So you’re just going to stay here then?” I ask, even though I’m pretty sure I already know the answer.
“Does it look like I have a choice?”
“Do I have a choice?”
“No.”
“Are you always this easy to talk to?”
A second passes with him watching me closely, before he responds, “I wouldn’t know.”
“What do you mean? You don’t know how you usually talk to others?”
“I don’t talk to others.”
“Not even where you’re from?”
“Especially not where I’m from.”
My eyebrows lift. “Is that by choice? Or by circumstance?”
“Circumstance.”
Wow. Not a single person he can talk to? I hardly even notice when I take a step toward him, tilting my head to the side and softening my voice. “But . . . never?”
He tenses, almost like he’s not sure how to react. For a moment I wonder what made him more uncomfortable—me inching closer or the gentle way I asked the question. Eventually, he replies, gentling his own voice in return. “No. No one other than you.”
I’ve almost closed the gap between us now. He’s barely breathing, his chest completely still before me. I hardly know him, this man with soulless eyes, yet somehow, a piece of my heart aches for him. I feel it, pulling at my chest, twisting deep. I thought I knew what it meant to be lonely. How long has it been since he’s spoken to anyone but me? How much loneliness has he endured? My face falls, my own recent feelings of desolation so small in comparison.
I keep my gaze locked on his when I whisper, “I can’t even imagine.”
He doesn’t respond. With his imposing height, taut muscles, and stone-like stature, he is a solid wall. Impenetrable. And yet, I don’t miss the green shimmer that glints behind his eyes. It’s only there for a second, almost fleeting enough for me to think it’s a trick of the light. Except I’ve seen the color swirl there before, and there’s no way I could mistake such a vibrant emerald blaze.
What is that? I almost ask him, but I quickly recall the last time I mentioned it, the way he’d retreated immediately. I don’t know why, but right now, I don’t want him to retreat. I want to keep him talking to me. I want to glimpse that emerald fire again.
“Do you have a name?”
His eyes narrow just a fraction, as though he’s trying to comprehend why I’d ask such a question. Or perhaps it’s the question itself that has him confused.
“Something I can call you, other than Death?”
“You don’t need to be calling me anything.” His response is commanding, a crisp slice through the air, but it doesn’t deter me.
“But I do.” I don’t want to tell him why I do—that I find myself thinking of him so often I need something else to refer to him as. So instead I go with, “You know my name. It’s only fair that I know yours.”
He gives a slight, rigid shake of his head. “I have no name.”
My focus wanders from his eyes down to the smooth curves of his lips when he pulls them into a tight line. Realizing how dry my own lips suddenly feel, I lick them without a thought. When I shift my gaze back up, he’s honed in on my mouth. My stomach flutters before tightening at the intimacy of his stare, and it takes me a second to find my voice again. When I do, the shakiness betrays me. “I’m going to go get changed. Make yourself . . . comfortable . . . I guess.”
I don’t wait for a response. Turning my back to him floods me with an odd and confusing mixture of relief, loss, and caution. I swipe the clothes off my dresser and step inside the bathroom, closing the door without looking back.
Just breathe, I tell myself, grasping the counter’s ledge and inhaling slowly.
It’s not the first time I’ve spoken to him. Been alone with him. I’m a grown woman, and I’ve faced more than many others my age have. I can handle this.
I force my body to move, pulling my top over my head before unzipping my jeans, sliding them to the ground. The bathroom’s insulated cool air bounces off the tiles, skimming my bare skin. I’m all too aware of the fact I’m standing almost completely naked with nothing but a thin door separating me from him. I know he can’t see me, but that doesn’t prevent a cluster of tingles from chasing my spine. After slipping on the snug pair of pajama bottoms and the loose top, I grip the door handle, swallow hard, and twist.
He’s standing before the window, his broad back toward me as he gazes down at the brightened shops below. The deafening silence only betrays each creak of the wooden floors, not to mention the loud thumping of my heart, so I walk quietly toward the nightstand and retrieve the TV remote. I flick the power on, paying no attention to the channel, and soften the volume until it fades to a hum filling the background of my room.
“Can you show me?” I ask.
He whips his head around at the sound of my voice, as if I’ve just yanked him away from some serious train of thought. “Show you what?”
“What happens when you try to leave.”
“It’s not that simple.”
“So explain it to me.” I desperately want to understand how all of this works. How this is happening. I need to understand. “Please.”
A low breath escapes from his lips, and his jaw ticks. He’s hesitant. “What I can tell you,” he finally says, “is that there’s supposed to be a connection linking me to where I’m from. And right now, it’s gone.” He turns away, effectively ending the conversation.
I have more questions for him—so many questions. But it’s clear he won’t be answering them just yet. He needs space. Privacy. Time to work out whatever’s going on in his head.
After tugging the silver throw from the foot of my bed, I settle onto the rocking chair. Really I want my bed, but that’d probably be too weird. His presence may have temporarily distracted me from my aching bones and sore muscles, but now that he’s slunk away into his own private shell, the dull throbbing seems dead set on returning full force. Exhaustion consumes me. I groan as I adjust my position, crossing my ankles and draping the throw across myself.
His head shifts toward me at the sound, just enough to reveal the strong angle of his jaw, the straight line of his nose. His lashes cast downward. He doesn’t say anything, though, and turns back to the window after a moment.
Flicking through the channels is nothing more than a means of appearing occupied. I don’t want to reveal to him how much of my attention he really has, how my thoughts gravitate toward him like a magnet, even when I try to distract myself with other things.
The silence drones on, tick tick tick. Each second dr
agged out by the tall shadow he casts over my room, the heat emanating off of him, spilling into the air and filling every corner. Thump thump thump, my heart smacks against my chest. I’m not naïve, nor inexperienced. I may have only been fully intimate with one man in my life, but I’ve never been shy, not about my body. Not about my physical reactions to certain things. Certain men. As much as I wish it wasn’t the case, I know exactly why he sends shivers through my body, warm vibrations across every inch of my skin.
“Why are you hurting?”
My stomach pulls tight at the hum of his voice, like I’ve been caught. He can’t read your mind, Lou. The reminder helps my muscles unclench.
“What do you mean?”
He wheels around fully, so he’s facing me, and gestures toward my body. “You’re in pain. Why?”
“Oh.” I swear my relief is tangible. “Long day at work.” When his eyebrows draw together, two hard lines forming between them, I clarify, “Cleaning. A lot of scrubbing and kneeling. I’m fine, just still getting used to it.”
His lips purse, but he says nothing. The way he’s watching me, cautious yet almost fascinated, makes my throat thicken. I don’t think he even knows he’s lowered his guard enough to let me glimpse it, that look in his smoky, dark eyes.
I clear my throat. “You can sit down.” His gaze follows my nod toward the loveseat just a few feet away from me. When he doesn’t move, I add, “It’d make us both more comfortable.”
I watch as he crosses the room and lowers himself into the seat, taking a ragged breath and leaning forward so his forearms are resting on his knees. His large frame makes the loveseat look like it was made for a child’s doll.
I know I’m staring, but I can’t help it. I’m beginning to realize just how much of an enigma this man is. A walking contradiction.
Everything about him—from his appearance to his voice to his mannerisms—is powerful, strong, filled with confidence and a foreboding sense of danger. Dark, mysterious, and deadly, in a way that will leave you breathless and unsure of what’s to come. And yet, in moments like this, where it’s just him and me, there’s a vulnerability beneath it all that draws me to him like a moth to a flame. During the moments when there’s lingering silence between us, I hear the shakiness behind his otherwise strong voice. Feel the quivering of corded muscles whenever our bodies brush up against each other. See the uncertainty flash through his hard eyes whenever he finds me looking at him.