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There’s something almost like pain in his voice, and I don’t understand where it’s coming from. But as I process the meaning of his words, a knife twists in my stomach.
I guessed at the truth. I practically knew it already. But this is the first time I’ve gotten direct confirmation of the timeline.
This man has been stalking me ever since the night I saved his life.
I’m not a new toy, a shiny distraction.
I’m an old, deep obsession.
“Then why did you do it?” I ask, my voice raspy and low. “If you know I can take care of myself, why did you do anything? Why did you get rid of Natalie?”
“Because you didn’t.” His voice is blunt, honest. “Because despite everything you’ve been through, you’re still a better person than the world has any right to expect you to be.”
I almost laugh in his face. No one’s called me a good person in years. Maybe not ever. Not that I can remember, anyway. “You obviously don’t know me as well as you think you do.”
“I never said I know you.”
Something shifts in his tone as he says the words, and it makes goose bumps prickle along my skin. He shifts his body slightly, still keeping me boxed in against the door but releasing his grip on my wrist. The palm of his large hand comes to rest on the wood beside my head, and the fingertips of his other brush over my shoulder as he drops his gaze.
I’ve still got on the tank top I wore to the temp gig today, and the feel of his fingers dragging over my bare skin makes a shiver run through me. His gaze tracks the movement of his hand as he finds the scar from the bullet wound on my upper chest.
My breath catches in my throat, and I go absolutely still, although my ribs shake from the force of my heart slamming against them.
That bullet was the one that did the least damage. The one lower on my sternum and the one in my shoulder are the two that almost killed me. But all three of the circular scars on my skin are permanent reminders of the night I almost died.
Marcus’s fingertip stops on the small round section of scar tissue, covering it completely. As if all these years later, he can somehow stanch the flow of blood that poured from that wound.
“What…” My voice doesn’t want to work. I have to force the words out, and they’re barely above a whisper when they finally pass my lips. “What are you doing?”
He doesn’t answer, but that same look of pain passes over his face as he gazes down at my scarred skin. As if it hurts him to see the remnants of my wounds.
Then his fingertips move lower, tugging down the neckline of my tank top a little to reveal the second scarred bullet hole. The rough pads of his fingers brush over the swell of my breast, and my eyelids flutter as a rush of sensation pours through me.
I could run.
I could slip away, yank the door open, and flee down the front steps.
He’s not physically restraining me at all anymore. The only point of contact between us is the place where his fingertips softly caress my skin.
But that soft touch pins me to the door even more solidly than his heavy weight did earlier. I’m trapped, held hostage by something I can’t even name.
&nbs
p; It’s not fair. It’s not fucking fair.
There are cracks in my skin, breaks in my armor. They formed the day three bullets shredded my body, and now he’s using those weak spots to crawl inside me.
To invade my life.
My being.
My soul.
He seems mesmerized by the light-colored scars that mar my skin, and his brows draw together as he moves his fingertips over to the third bullet hole. This one is messier, with more scar tissue surrounding it. This is the one that took my arm from me.
The nerves are fucked up around the bullet wound and in patches all the way down my arm, so my skin tingles as his fingers drag across it. It’s too much to handle, too fucking intense, so I let myself focus on his face instead of the feelings building inside my body.
A light stubble shadows his jawline, like maybe he hasn’t shaved since yesterday. The roughness of it contrasts with the smooth skin of his face and chest, which is unblemished and lightly tanned. His shoulders are broad and muscled, and even though he’s not wearing his leather jacket, there’s still a hint of leather mixed in with the clean scent of his skin.
