Page 11 of Ghosted

“Only when they’re interesting.”

“And was I?”

Her gaze flicks over my face, taking in the blood, the bruises, the cut above my brow. Slow enough to feel deliberate.

Then she looks me dead in the eye.

“Jury’s still out.”

I step closer.

Close enough that she has to tip her chin up to keep looking at me. Close enough that I catch the tiny shift in her throat when she swallows, even though the rest of her stays still like she’s too stubborn to give me the satisfaction of backing up.

“I don’t care about the jury.”

Her brows lift slightly.

“I asked what you think.”

For once, she doesn’t answer right away.

Good.

I like that.

I like watching that sharp little mouth pause like she didn’t expect me to push back. Like she’s used to hiding behind the camera, behind the smartass answers, behind all that black lace and silver, and nobody getting close enough to make her actually choose a side.

But I’m close now.

Close enough to see the pale color of her eyes under all that dark makeup. Close enough to watch her fingers tighten around the camera strap before she makes herself loosen them again.

Her other hand lifts to her hair, almost casual, twisting one dark strand around her finger like she needs something to do with all the tension she’s pretending isn’t there.

My gaze follows the movement.

Bad idea.

Because now I’m looking at her hair. The blue-black shine of it. The way it falls over her shoulder and brushes the silver crosses at her throat.

Before I can talk myself out of it, I catch the end of one loose strand between my fingers.

She goes still.

Completely fucking still.

I don’t pull. Don’t tug. Just let the soft slip of it drag over my knuckles before bringing it closer, enough to catch the scent clinging there.

Smoke.

Vanilla.

Something sharp and sweet underneath, like trouble trying to behave.

My mouth curves.

I let her hair slip from my fingers and nod toward the camera. “Did you get what you wanted?”

Her fingers tighten around the camera.