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They’re alone. In her apartment.
“Hazel. Yourphone,” he calls out from her bedroom.
“Nightstand,” she chokes out, backing into the kitchen.
She eyes the cheap knife block with the dull blades sitting on the counter.
She’s cut herself enough times on accident that she finally made an appointment to have them sharpened.
Too bad it’s set for two weeks from now.
Abel exits her bedroom with her phone in hand and his bare face exposed.
She wishes he had left the mask on, and not because he’s horrifying to look at.
It’s the exact opposite.
His jaw is sharp with a few days’ worth of dark stubble. His nose is straight and strong, and his lips look too soft on someone so rugged.
Fuck.That.
It makes her furious.
But he doesn’t notice her reaction or doesn’t care, because his gaze flits to the knife block that’s a foot from her. “You can try it, if you want,” he says calmly, his low voice enhanced by the lack of a mask. “But we both know how that’s going to end.”
She swallows, but he makes no move to come closer. “Do we?” she asks stupidly.
“I could disarm you and have you on your back in less than a second.” The corner of his lip quirks up, and she flushes. “But if you’d like a demonstration, I’m sure I could humor you this one time.”
Hold on. Is he…
Is this his way offlirting?
It’s working, which is the embarrassing part.
A rush of wetness floods her underwear.
Do not flirt with your captor that’s hellbent on an unachievable societal revolution!
“You’re insane,” she hisses instead, pulling her mouth into a scowl.
He cocks an eyebrow, amused. “I’m not sure if I’m the insane one out of the two of us standing in this apartment.”
She considers attempting to stab him just to shut him up.
“Stop acting like you know me,” she says instead, which causes his smirk to fade.
“You’re acting awfully mouthy for someone that just agreed to be my hostage in exchange for her best friend’s freedom.”
His tone shifts easily, and it’s those moments when his light icy eyes turn dark that frighten her. He never lets her forget who has the power, especially when she’s feeling exceptionally vulnerable.
She makes an effort to forget that he helped her through a panic attack less than twenty minutes ago.
“Who’s Connor?” he asks suddenly as she backs up against the counter nervously. At the sound of the little boy’s name, she gasps.
“What?”
But he’s too busy fiddling with her phone to look at her. “Your friend mentioned trying to find Connor.”
