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I’m not home. Oh my God.I escaped.
He doesn’t know where I am. I mean,Idon’t even know where I am and can only hope that Seth doesn’t find me.
I lay back on the pillow and breathe out a sigh of relief. I said a prayer before I fell asleep, and maybe there is still a God because I’m still here and no one’s found me yet.
“Thank you,” I whisper.
“You’re welcome.”
I stifle a scream at the sound of a deep, raspy male voice coming from somewhere in the room and reach wildly for my glasses. My hands clasp around them and I shove them on my face.
It isn’t one of the men that I saw earlier. No. This man is nothing like anyone I’ve ever seen before. His huge, hulking figure barely fits on the chair in the corner of the room. I can’t tell how tall he is from here, but he’s leaning forward, and everything about him is large, imposing, and utterly, irascibly masculine.
Dark brown eyes beneath heavy brows. Harsh angles to his face, a rugged jaw covered in dark stubble. If masculinity could be beautiful, he’s sitting right in front of me.
Wow.
“I wasn’t thanking you,” I say irrationally, then wish I could take it back. I don’t mean to be rude, but I want him to know I didn’t know he was there and wasn’t thanking him.
His brows draw together in confusion. “Who were you thanking, then? There’s no one else here.”
“God,” I stammer inanely. “I mean, if there is a God.” And that easily, I just committed another sin.Heretic.
I watch him blink in surprise. “I’m definitely not him.”
“Who are you?” I ask, my voice quickly lost in the large, spacious room.
When he crosses his arms over his chest, I note the way the white fabric of his shirt stretches taut against his biceps, as if he’s been only temporarily tamed and will break out of this getup of formal attire any second like a werewolf under the light of a full moon.
“The better question,” he says in a low voice – a verywolfishvoice – “is who areyou?”
I can’t tell him who I am, of course. And I can’t lie to him, either. I don’t know what to say, so I say nothing at all.
I can tell within seconds that he doesn’t like that.
“I asked you a question.” His voice is low and deep, almost a growl.
“I know,” I say honestly and can’t help but wince. “And I want to tell you, but I can’t.”
“Can’t?” His low, rumbling voice is tainted with anger. I watch as he thoughtfully draws his thumb across the stubble on his chin. “Or won’t?”
When I don’t answer, he stands, andoh my goodnessdid I ever underestimate how tall he is.
My heart threatens to leap out of my chest. I can tell by the look on his face and the furnace-like heat radiating from him that when he reaches me, he’s going to hurt me. I toss the blanket aside and scramble out of the bed, looking wildly around the room for something I can use to defend myself. He lifts a hand. I back up against the bed and raise my hands to defend myself, grabbing my glasses and tossing them onto the bed.
In books, sometimes small women like me overtake large men. But that’s only fiction. Biology is on his side, and barring a well-placed kick to his groin, I don’t stand a chance against him.
He freezes. “Why did you do that?”
“Do what?” I say, my voice trembling and shaky.
“Throw your glasses on the bed.”
I swallow, my heart in my throat as I respond. “I… don’t want you to break them if you hit me.”
He pauses and stares at me again. “First, you won’t tell me who you are. Now you accuse me of being the kind of man that would strike a woman across the face andbreak her glasses?”
At first, I’m not really sure how to respond so I fall back on the first thing that comes to me: logic.
