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“Leo will show you.” Denver finishes his coffee and exits the kitchen.
I gulp down the water and set the glass in the sink. Then I reach for the slotted knife block and remove the largest kitchen knife. It won’t be easy running with it in my grip, but it’s better than nothing.
Turning, I smile at Leo.
He doesn’t smile back. He doesn’t twitch or say a word. He just glares at me. Then slowly, his eyes lift to my ponytail and lower to my hoodie, black running tights, and sneakers. Last of all, he looks at the knife in my hand.
Inwardly, I recoil at the tumultuous air churning between us, unsure how this will end but refusing to collapse under the weight of it.
“You want to hurt me, love?” He closes in, his bare feet landing on either side of my shoes. Muscled forearms flank my waist as his hands flatten on the counter behind me.
The scent of him envelopes me in the rich, dark aroma of a mechanic’s shop—motor oil, gasoline, exhaust—with overtones of cedar and snow and something altogether potent.
“Yes.” I clutch the knife between us, the only thing preventing our chests from touching.
Angling his mouth toward my neck, he exhales heat and cruelty against my flesh. My nipples wake, tightening, and a spasm clenches between my legs.
It’s involuntary and meaningless. I’ve always been drawn to hard, overbearing alpha males. My body doesn’t care that this alpha goes for the neck, and his bite doesn’t deliver pleasure. It’s meant to kill.
As my insides betray me, spiraling from distrust to lust, I fight the impulse to lean into the lips hovering at my throat. I also resist the urge to shove him away. I won’t let this asshole intimidate me.
He’s a bully. Ignore him.
His nose follows the line of my neck, his pulsing nostrils brushing my skin. Then his breaths begin to seethe, like he’s gearing up to say something poisonous.
“What?” My heart hammers, but on the surface, I hold dead still. “Say it.”
Ruinous, multicolored eyes lift to mine. His lips part, but nothing comes out.
The dark slashes of his brows, the straight line of his nose, the untamed, curly bristles of his short beard—all accentuated by the dangerous intensity cementing his expression. I’ve never seen a more beautiful monster.
His mouth remains open, drifting closer, closer, until all I feel is his warm breath against my lips. Stimulating breath. Inhaling deeply and slowly. Exhaling until the lungs empty. His and mine.
Neither of us moves as we breathe in rhythm. In unison. In a trance.
The tension between us isn’t new. It’s existed since the moment our eyes first met. But this is different. This tension is feverish, ravenous, and wrong. It’s a live wire, thrumming with sexual attraction and chemistry, seconds from catching fire. I haven’t felt this pulling, pushing, drugging sensation since my courtship with Monty.
I shouldn’t feel it now. Not in this place and not with this man.
That’s when I realize my lips are parted, mirroring his, and so close. Just a breath away from touching.
I snap my mouth closed and jerk back.
“Let’s be clear about one thing.” He stays with me, his chest pushing against the knife in my hand. He’s twice my size, but his mouth is the biggest threat. “I hate you.”
“You make it your job to ensure I know that. You want me to feel unwanted here. Unprotected. Alone. Miserable.” I lift a shoulder. “Guess what? I feel all those things. I’m sad, lost, despised, and scared out of my fucking mind. So congratulations. Job well done.”
Something flashes across his face, there and gone so fast I wonder if I imagined it.
I don’t know what he’s hiding, but I do know that if he wanted me dead, he wouldn’t press up against me and smother me in sexual tension. I’m under no illusions that I’m special. I’m the only woman here. The only vagina to get off in. Perhaps that’s why he hasn’t killed me.
“But that doesn’t mean I won’t fight.” I lift the knife and touch it to his neck.
He grips my wrist, pressing the blade against his skin.
“If you want to hurt me, you need a smarter plan than a kitchen knife.” He plucks it from my fingers and returns it to the knife block. “If you want to survive outside, follow me.”
When he releases my arm, I’m not thinking about how easily he divested me of my weapon. I’m stuck on the fact that I instantly, achingly miss his touch.
Shame thins my breath.
Am I developing some sort of sick, emotional bond with my captor? I know it’s not unheard of, especially after spending a confined length of time together. But it’s an irrational condition. A dangerous illness. I can’t let myself succumb to that, no matter how lonely I feel.
Shaking off the notion, I unstick my feet from the floor and trail after him for one reason only.
