entries. One by one, I go through each item, trailing my finger along the page as a guide. Maybe I hope the renewed focus on my work will make him vanish.
In theory, it should be simple to ignore him, but I can hear his slow, heavy breathing. Smell his most recent cigarette from here. Taste his spice on my tongue.
Finally, I sigh in defeat and look up, meeting his watchful gaze directly. “I don’t have any money.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Did I ask for money?”
“I don’t have anything else you might want either,” I snap.
“I doubt that…” He pointedly eyes the neckline of my dress, making me shift uncomfortably. It’s cut differently than my tried and true sweaters, displaying more of my collarbone and a glimpse of the flesh beneath. I can’t stop myself from crossing my arms over my chest, and he flashes that dangerous grin in triumph. “In fact, I can think of a few things you could offer—”
“Get out.” I slam the ledger shut and turn away as if just telling him to leave could make it true.
But he doesn’t. Neither does he creep toward my corner to drill in his taunt—and that’s the worst part. I have to endure him, but without the tools I’m used to utilizing. Silence and the safety of my own head don’t work where he’s concerned.
His breathing is too noisy, grating, and raspy. His scent is overpowering, sneaking into my lungs with every inhale. Around him, my thoughts don’t form the protective wall I’m used to hiding behind. They fracture. Splinter.
And he breaks through easily.
“I want to see you hop, bunny,” he murmurs, just when I think I might scream to counteract his presence. “Without the dowdy little sweaters or the boring little mask. I want to prove you wrong. I didn’t run last time. I just gave you a taste. It’s up to you if you want more but with no excuses. No chance to cry assault.”
I bristle at his tone, wrapping my arms around my waist even tighter. If I hope to find comfort in the action, I don’t. His gaze slips beneath the barrier, creeping over me without permission. I can practically feel his gaze rasping along my skin. “What are you talking about?”
“Tonight,” he repeats. “Dragon’s Head. You can even bring your little friend if you want.”
Dragon’s Head. The name conjures the image of neon lights and raucous dancing. “The club?” I frown. “Why would I go there with you?”
He laughs, and his steps resonate along the floor. Alarmed, I turn to watch him move, but he takes his time, giving me every chance to cower and back away.
I don’t recognize the way my breathing hitches as he comes closer. How my nerves tense as he raises his hand, deliberately inching toward my cheek.
“D-Don’t touch me—”
“I have touched you,” he reminds me. “Don’t kid yourself into believing you don’t want more.”
“More of what?” I force myself to meet his gaze only to regret it.
I wish his eyes gleamed in that mocking, cruel way, but their stare is flat and empty. “More of what could happen the next time I have my fingers inside you.”
My hand flies out of its own accord, landing across his cheek. Hard. My gasp is louder than his startled grunt, my eyes widening at the violence—and the swiftness of his reaction.
His free hand cups his smarting cheek, but the other snatches my wrist, wrenching me around. I scramble to brace myself against a bookshelf as he pins my arm against my back. A heartbeat later, he steps in, his breath hot on my throat.
“Not nice, bunny.” There’s no real anger in his voice—a fact that makes me shiver. No. Because he’s too busy sliding his other hand down my thigh and grasping a handful of my skirt. “Let’s cut to the chase. Why I’m really here. I want to hear you say it…” He lets the silence linger, just long enough to have me squirming with anticipation. His pulse is racing, palpable through his fingertips, thrumming through the thin linen of my dress. “You danced around it the other night. Now admit it, you would have let me fuck you on the roof that night.”
He scoffs when I don’t reply. I’m too disgusted to. Horrified.
Because, a part of me taunts, he’s telling the truth.
“Do you need a reminder?” My eyes seem riveted to the contours of his hand, those fingers perpetually stained with ink. They toy with the yellow fabric, daring me to