There’s something about those eyes that pushes me into a high-alert mode.
I want to run.
I want to hide.
But I can’t. Something tells me it’s not only because of my physical injuries. I’m unable to run from him.
He’s wearing a simple white T-shirt and a black leather jacket along with dark jeans. His hair is the color of a moonless night with a bluish hue. It’s short on the sides and long enough in the middle to be tousled.
The straight, chiseled jawline and the thick brows give him a fatally attractive edge—the kind serial killers have.
His broad shoulders and lean waist increase the intimidation of his already dark exterior tenfold.
Well, the physique is understandable. After all, he’s an athlete who slaves at the gym and practices constantly.
Wait—how do I know that?
His upper lip lifts in a cruel smirk as if he injected all the shadows in it. “I knew you would come back.”
Unlike the nurse, he doesn’t seem relieved about that. No. He’s like a hunter who’s closely observing his prey right before the attack.
A lightning strike right before the thunder.
The click of a gun right before the shot.
Suddenly, I wish I’d surrendered to the darkness of unconsciousness. That type of darkness is better than this one.
Don’t they say some monsters are better than others?
His hand reaches out for me and I instinctively push against the pillow. Pain explodes in my head and my upper shoulder, but I don’t stop.
I need to stay away from his hold.
Run.
Run!
My instinct has caught up with my slow brain and is now shouting at me to get the hell out of here.
In my condition, it’s impossible to move a muscle, let alone run.
I glance behind me at the emergency call button. Maybe if I ask the kind nurse, she can remove him from my side. Maybe someone can help me.
Because I need help right now.
I can feel it in my bones and taste it on my tongue.
He releases a tsking sound that gets past my ears and embeds under my skin. “No one will save you. It’s just you and me.”
Like doom coming closer, his hand reaches for me, and he clutches my chin between his thumb and forefinger.
It’s a soft touch, so soft it shocks my warm skin. The emotionless look in his dark eyes is anything but gentle, though. A sadistic smirk lifts the corner of his lips.
A shudder emerges from deep within my soul.
It’s the look of someone out to destroy, to maim and mutilate—and he’ll do it all with a smile on his face.
“L-let me go.” It’s the pleading of the dying, my voice. The last murmur of the dead.