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My parents gasp, but I can’t focus on anything but Cameron. So strange. His eyebrows draw together and he plucks a box from his suit pocket.
“Open your hand.” His voice is low and deep, so commanding it captivates my attention.
An outer force must possess my body because I do what he says. He drops the velvet box. I open it to reveal a ring with sparkling little diamonds on the band, topped off by a princess-cut diamond.
What just happened?
“No glove this time. Put it on or I will.”
Something tells me he’d do just that. Panic pushes me to take the glove off, his eyes burning the skin I uncover. I quickly slip the cold material onto my finger.
“Good.” He turns and leaves us. No nod, no goodbye.
I stare at him as he joins the group I was observing before he walked in. Agitation ripples down his torso. The group engages in an intense but hushed conversation. It’s the word freak that gets to me. I decipher the word falling from his lips with a hiss.
It hurts, which surprises me. As I watch the three women standing next to him, I can’t help but compare myself. I am wrapped in black while they are bathed in jewelry and colorful dresses. I’m aware I am not the average woman, but this is something else. I won’t fit in.
Needing a moment to compose myself, I go to the terrace. I inhale the fresh air, my hands rubbing at my arms as I approach the railing. Leaving the sanctuary of my room is as bad as I imagined. The worst part is that all their eyes are filled with pity and false understanding. I never understood fake empathy. It’s easy to say “put yourself in someone else’s shoes” when, most of the time, you can’t even wear those shoes.
The door slides open and I turn to apologize to my parents when I see him. Cameron approaches me and my back hits the railing.
“Please.” That one word conveys all my weaknesses, all my issues.
As if he didn’t hear me, he prowls forward, undeterred. I am rooted in place. His smell, musk and spice, and his breath, a mix of whiskey and something sweet wash over me, teasing my senses. He towers over me, caging me in with his hands, gripping the railing but not touching me.
I’m short of hyperventilating. My heart gallops through my chest and panic settles in with his body right next to mine. I feel the warmth and the shadow of the near-touch in my bones. If one of us were to move, we would touch, and that knowledge paralyzes me.
“Please,” I repeat, lifting my gaze to meet his eyes.
“We have a problem. On the one hand, I wouldn’t want to touch you to save my life.”
A pang of something undefined strikes me. His dismissal and blatant admission that he is not interested in me bother me, but I don’t know why.
“On the other hand, to see you so unfit for life ignites a social responsibility in me.”
If I could, I would slap him.
“Do not touch me and we’ll be fine.”
“What if I do or what if you want me to?”
A peal of laughter tumbles from my mouth and his features pull taut. The surprise on his face has me inching toward him of my own volition. “You can rest assured that will never happen.”
He grabs a strand of my wig.
My lungs constrict and I cease breathing.
“Is anything in you slightly normal?” he asks.
“I am me.” To say I am normal would be lying.
The door slides open and the woman I saw him walk in with steps out onto the terrace.
“Cam, what are you doing?”
He smiles at her, emphasizing the perfect bone structure and lethal beauty he wields. And he is perfectly aware of it.
She sighs, looking at me with a friendly expression. At the obvious worry, my fingers tighten around the railing. “You’re making her uncomfortable.”
