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“You called?”
I’m brought out of my musings by a voice from behind.
“Yes, I–”
I stop short.
The man before me is dressed casually in jeans and a worn-in sweater. There’s nothing about the outfit that should scream attractive—but there’s something about the way this man wears it that makes it so. It’s as effortless as the sheepish smirk on his face.
It must be the hair. The thick, dark hair that falls effortlessly across his olive skin like he’s just walked out of a fashion shoot.
Or maybe it’s the eyes. Framed by lashes that are upsettingly long to belong to a man, his dark, near onyx-colored eyes…
His eyes.
That unbearable darkness.
“You.”
It all comes back to me like he personally reached into my brain and opened the floodgates himself.
Everything.
The club. Going to see Douglas, seeing this man standing over his dead body. Fighting with him. Running away. My brother. He knows my brother. He knows who Aimee is with. Looking into Douglas’ lifeless eyes. The twinge of pain as he plunged something into me that I couldn’t see.
“You drugged me,” I realize with a start. Then, more importantly. “Y-you killed Douglas.”
His face drops. “Roisin–”
“Why am I here? Who are you?” I say, backing away.
“Please, let’s sit down somewhere more comfortable,” he says pragmatically.
It makes me irrationally irritated. “No.”
“Roisin…” he says with a sigh. “Let’s not do this again.”
A thousand questions bubble to the surface of my mind.
“Whose clothes are these?” I blurt out first, suddenly appalled by the idea of this man touching me, dressing me.
He shakes his head, annoyance riddling his expression. “Why are you so stubborn?”
“I’m not going anywhere until you answer me.”
“The clothes? They’re yours. Consider them my apology.”
“That’s not what I meant!” I cry.
“No, you just wanted to demand things of me in the middle of a drafty old room.”
“God, you’re so patronizing!” I can feel my body getting more and more wound up. “I’m not demanding anything. You kidnapped me!”
“You’re absolutely right,” he says, pretending to think about it. “That time, it was a statement.”
I try again. “You know who I am?”
“Yes,” he replies simply.
