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There’s a bright red mark across her cheek, and I smile calmly at her as she stares at me with wrath in her eyes.
“That’s the thing about the disabled,” I drawl. “Sometimes you gotta watch the fake hand, not the real one.”
“You—you—” She sputters, obviously more picky about her comebacks than I am, since she doesn’t seem to be able to come up with an appropriate word to call me.
She finally gives up, pressing her lips together in a straight line and glaring at me before turning and stomping up the stairs and into the building. I watch the door slam shut behind her, a small, satisfied smile creeping across my lips.
Yeah, that might’ve been a little petty. But it was satisfying as fuck. Natalie has hated me ever since we were fourteen, when I got chosen by the foster parents she’d been hoping would pick her. They were rich and well-connected. Even back then, she was obsessed with getting powerful people on her side, with moving up in the world any way she could.
Joke’s on you, Nat. Those were the worst fucking years of my life.
She’ll never know the bullet she dodged. And she’ll always resent me for something I wish had never happened to me.
Shoving away the memories, I gather my shit and trudge up the short set of stairs after her. On the landing at the front entrance of the building, I set my stuff down to dig in my back pocket for my keys. But as my hand closes around the cool metal, my gaze flicks up—and I freeze.
A man is standing across the street, leaning casually against a car with one foot braced against the tire. He’s not moving. His face is impassive.
But he’s staring right at me.
Chapter 3
My stomach dips.
It’s not the man with the mis-matched eyes. I can tell that much even from this distance. This man’s hair is darker and cut shorter, his frame a little more broad. It’s not the same man.
It’s one of his friends.
The guy must’ve noticed me staring at him, since I’m not being subtle about it at all, but he doesn’t react in any way. He doesn’t turn his gaze away as if chagrined at being caught. Nor does he push away from the car to walk toward me.
He just… waits.
And watches.
His focus on me is so intense that I feel it like a brand on my skin, and fear churns inside me. But instead of making me shrink away or dart inside the building and hide, it makes me puff up.
I spent a large part of my life thinking it was better to stay off the radar, to make myself seem as unimportant and inconspicuous as possible as a way of avoiding unwanted trouble. But experience has taught me that strategy doesn’t always work, and that sometimes it can even have the opposite effect. It can make predators think you’re weak.
My jacket slips from my arm again, and the prosthesis lands on top of it with a light thunk. My pulse races as I walk quickly back down the steps and march across the road, barely looking to make sure no cars are coming. The stranger watches me approach, the same indiscernible expression remaining on his face—as if he’s a statue come to life, solid stone that only looks like warm flesh.
When I’m several feet away from him, I raise my voice, still moving quickly across the road. “What the hell are you doing here? What do you want?”
He doesn’t answer until I get closer, and even then, his only reply is a silent shrug of his shoulders.
“I’m serious.” My voice is hard. I feel a little like a chihuahua yapping at a bigger dog, and I work hard to keep my voice level and strong as I speak. I may be afraid, but it’ll be worse for me if he knows that. “What the fuck are you doing here? Were you in that alley the other night? Did that man die? The one you attacked?”
“You mean, the one who attacked you?” The man tosses my words back at me, and I hesitate for a moment. His voice is deep and gruff, infused with a gravel that makes him sound older than he probably is—early twenties, I’m guessing.
“Is he dead?” I ask, my voice catching a little on the last word. He was so still when they finally dragged him away.
“No.”
His voice is clipped and curt, and the single-word answer doesn’t reassure me at all.
The guy must read the expression on my face, because his eyes narrow a little, anger sparking in their hazel depths. “He’s not. You don’t have to believe me if you don’t want to though. I don’t give a fuck.”
That, I definitely believe. This man seems almost angry at me, as if I’ve done something to offend him somehow, even though I’ve never met him before in my life.
He’s well-dressed in stylish slacks and a jacket over a crisp white shirt. Tattoos peek out from the top of his collar and the ends of his sleeves, swirling multi-colored ink that draws my gaze. It seems so incongruous with the rest of his appearance, a rough edge around a manicured package.
