“I observed,” he corrects softly.
“That’s not better.”
I narrow my eyes, trying to maintain some semblance of professional distance, but it’s failing.
His low chuckle is almost lost under the swell of the music, but his smile is magnetic. Intimidating. My front brushes his chest with every step, and I can feel the steady rhythm of his breathing. Calm. Too calm.
“For someone who was afraid of me,” he almost growls near my ear, his lips ghosting over my skin.
“You’re very comfortable standing this close.”
Heat rises to my face, a flush of embarrassment I can’t hide. My cheeks are suddenly burning.
“I wasn’t afraid,” I swallow hard, the lie tasting like ash.
“And I’m definitely not comfortable either.”
“Hmm.”
The sound vibrates deep in his throat, a dark, melodic rumble that makes my knees weak.
“Now you know who's hunting you.”
His demeanor shifts instantly. The words slide down my spine like liquid ice, leaving a trail of pure, unadulterated dread.
“You’re admitting it,” I breathe.
“Madeline,” he whispers.
“You already knew.”
His thumb continues its slow, rhythmic trace along my waist. It’s not gentle, but it’s not cruel either. Every movement is a calculated claim. My fingers curl instinctively against his arm, the expensive fabric of his suit bunching under my grip.
Because he’s right. I did. I did know. I’ve known since the first time I felt his eyes on me in the dark.
“But here’s the part you don’t understand yet,” he says, leaning closer until his lips are a mere inch from my ear. His voice drops into a register so dark it makes my blood hum.
“You’re not in danger.”
My heart stutters. For a split second, a wave of relief threatens to wash over me. But before it can take root, he severs it with a single sentence.
“You’re the hunt.”
The words knock the air right out of my lungs.
A slow, satisfied breath leaves him. When my eyes search his mask, desperate for answers, only one realization hits me. This is just a foreplay to him. He studies the shift in my expression as his lips curl into a cruel, beautiful smile.
“And I enjoy the chase far too much to let anyone else touch what’s mine,” he whispers.
Mine.That word burns a hole straight through my chest. It should feel like a cliché, hearing it from a man. I’ve heard it from cocky assholes before who thought a few dates gave them ownership. But hearing it from him? It feels different. Absolute. Like he actually means it.
And the most terrifying part? Being in the arms of a serial killer, I feel strangely protected. My work has definitely left some damage on my soul.
“You should run from me,” he murmurs softly, almost thoughtfully.
“You should be terrified every time you hear your name in the dark.”
He pauses, the silence between us heavy with everything left unsaid.
