Page 16 of Irrevocably

I know every text and call she makes, and she wasn’t calling her dad.

“I don’t think you were.” I stroll into the alley. “I think you were hiding from me.”

She shifts on her feet, glancing behind her and then over my shoulder, marking the fact that she’s trapped. But she doesn’t move. She stands her ground, lifting her chin even higher.

There’s a streetlight behind me and it shines on her face. Her skin is so pale and smooth, it’s almost translucent, and her scarf has slipped, revealing those bruises again. The ones I put there.

That kick of heat I felt earlier, when I found her in the bathroom and discovered those marks, kicks again, and harder this time. But I ignore it. I’ve never let my cock do my thinking for me.

Still, as I get closer to her, she starts backing away, and I can’t resist the urge to keep walking. It’s the hunter in me. I like the chase, I always have, and it’s especially good when I have my prey boxed in, with nowhere to run to.

She continues to back away until she hits the brick wall behind her, and her eyes widen with alarm when I don’t stop until I’m only inches from her, looking down at her pressed against the wall.

Her breathing is loud and fast in the silence of the alley, yet she’s still got that chin up, and there’s a hot silver glitter in her eyes. She’s scared, but she’s also furious, and it’s an oddly fascinating combination. Fear is the emotion I tend to inspire, not anger. Not when I’m this close to them. Because when I’m this close to them, they can see their own death in my eyes.

Everyone’s afraid of death right at the end. Everyone.

She isn’t, though.

No, she seems to welcome it like a long, lost lover.

I stare down into her grey-eyed gaze, wondering what exactly is so bad about her life that death is blessed escape. She has a roof over her head and one parent still living. She’s smart and she’s studying at college. She’s got a job, a direction, purpose. I didn’t have any of those things, yet death was never an option for me.

So what is it that makes her so different?

Almost unconsciously, my gaze drops to the lush curve of her mouth, and lower, to that pretty neck where the marks of my fingertips are hidden by her scarf. The urge comes out of nowhere and I’m reaching out to pull her scarf completely away before I can stop myself.

She catches her breath but doesn’t move. “If you’re going to do it, do it quickly. And this time don’t fuck it up.”

I can’t drag my gaze away from that necklace of bruises and the silver star in the hollow of her throat. Her tone is all bravado, so to test her I raise my hand and gently match my fingertips to each bruise, my palm resting over the star, feeling her pulse. Her skin is as warm as I remember, and she smells of lavender with a faint, coppery tinge of blood.

Her lashes sweep down, a veil over her eyes, and I watch as all her fear and anger suddenly dissipates, her body relaxing against the bricks behind her. Her pulse has slowed. She’s surrendering to me the way she did that night on the beach. She’s expecting me to choke her right here and now, and she’s okay with it.

“You think I’m going to let you off that easily?” I murmur, my thumb absently stroking the side of her neck, her skin silky and warm. “When I haven’t got what I want from you yet?”

Her lashes shiver then lift and she looks up at me, her eyes black in the shadows of the alley. “I don’t know anything,” she says, again with that hint of defiance. “Not about the club.”

“Your friend is an enforcer.”

“So? He doesn’t talk about it with me.”

“You never ask?”

“No.” She shivers and her breath catches as I continue the lazy back and forth stroke of my thumb against her neck. “He wouldn’t tell me anyway.”

I wasn’t wholly aware that I was still stroking her, too busy trying to read her face, but now I realise that she’s got her head tilted slightly to one side, as if she likes my touch.

Only fools and animals act without thinking, and I am neither, yet I’m gently tightening my grip on her throat before I know what I’m doing. There’s no reason for me to do this. I don’t want to kill her. Yet there’s something about the feel of her skin and the steady beat of her pulse against my palm, the thread of her fragile life, that makes me want to tighten my grip.

There’s an obvious power trip to be had when you hold someone’s life in your hand. When you are the one who can give life or take it away. Some like me are addicted to that power. But I’ve always been wary of giving in to that rush. Once you get a taste for it, you can’t stop, and that’s when you cease to be a weapon. That’s when you become the one who wields it.

And that’s not my purpose. My purpose is dealing with some family business, not choking a potential informant.

Except, I can feel her breathing, and she’s looking up at me, and her mouth is the most perfect bow. Full and lush. The heat inside me kicks yet again, much stronger this time, and I can’t stop myself. I move my thumb from the side of her neck and brush the pad of it along her bottom lip; and yes, it’s as soft as I thought it would be.

Her eyes widen, her breath shivers in her throat, but she doesn’t move as I brush over her bottom lip again, following the soft, pillowy line of it. I don’t think I’ve ever touched a woman purely for the pleasure of feeling her skin against mine, and I don’t know why I’m doing it now. But she’s not protesting. No, it seems as if she likes me touching her in this way, and really, the feel of her is … exceptional.

She’s a target, remember?