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When I spoke earlier, I kept my voice library-quiet out of habit—but the truth is, there’s no one around to hear us at any volume.
“Why did you do it?”
Marcus’s voice is quiet too, although I’m sure it’s not out of respect for the library, and there’s an intensity in his words that seems to burn through my skin.
I know what he’s talking about. He’s referring to the night I got shot. The night I almost died. It doesn’t take a fucking genius to figure that out. But I see no reason to give him any ground at all.
“Do what?” I keep my face impassive.
His eyes narrow slightly, and he steps forward, closing the space between us until our chests are practically brushing. “You know what.”
I have a sudden impulse to put my hand on his broad chest. To hold him at bay. To create some kind of barrier between us.
But for some reason, I’m terrified of touching him like that. So instead, I grab on to one of the shelves behind me, my hand near my hip, clutching the ancient metal like a lifeline.
“Is that why you’ve been following me all this time?” I have to tilt my head up to meet his gaze. “Just to ask me that? You could’ve saved yourself a long-ass time and asked me months ago.”
“I’m asking now.”
Up close, I can see every detail of his face, and I can’t help but drink it all in. This is the first time I’ve truly gotten a good look at him. Every other time I’ve seen this man, his features have been partially obscured by shadows, or by the shifting lights inside the club that night.
But here, under the dim gray fluorescents that hum in the ceiling, I can see him clearly.
He’s beautiful.
So much more beautiful than a man this dangerous has a right to be.
His hair is a rich, deep brown, cut shorter on the sides than the top. His jaw is square and broad, and his high cheekbones accentuate the angles of his face. A long, straight nose sits above full lips, and heavy eyebrows set off the long lashes that frame his eyes.
His eyes.
Fuck, it’s his eyes that make me feel like I’m drowning. They’re just as mesmerizing as I remember, and they dart back and forth in small movements as he takes in my face with the same intensity as I studying him.
I realize suddenly that silence has falle
n between us for who knows how long while I stare at him, and my stomach churns with a fresh wave of discomfort. I don’t like him knowing I have any interest in him at all. Any curiosity about him.
And while I’ve been studying him, what has he seen on my face? What did I give away?
I rip my gaze away from his, staring blankly at a spot just past his shoulder as I shrug slightly. “Fine. You wanna know why I did it? What made me decide to save your life?” I huff a quiet laugh. “Nothing. It was an accident.”
The last word is barely out of my mouth when Marcus moves, springing into motion so fast I don’t even have time to react.
He closes the last bit of distance between us, pressing his body against mine as he pins me to the shelves behind me. One of his muscled thighs wedges between mine, and his broad hand comes up to wrap around my jaw, tilting my face so I have no choice but to look at him. His lips press together and his nostrils flare as he stares down at me.
“I don’t like being lied to, Ayla. In fact, it’s one of the few things in the world I won’t fucking tolerate. So you wanna try that again?”
My heart slams unevenly in my chest, my pulse thrumming so hard and fast I’m sure he can feel it where his fingers touch my neck. Fear rises up in me, tainted by a sharp, unwanted zing of pleasure as his hard thigh presses against my clit.
My whole body goes tense as I rise up practically onto my tiptoes, trying to mash myself into the shelving unit behind me to keep as much distance between our bodies as possible.
But there’s none to be had.
He’s above me, in front of me, all around me. His thigh presses harder against me as he tightens his grip on my face, and my fingers are like a vise as I clutch the shelf near my hip.
He’s everywhere. His magnetic gaze burns into me, and when I inhale sharply, his scent floods my nostrils. It’s clean and rich, with a bite of leather that must be from the jacket he wears.
“I—”
