The Heathen (Preacher Brothers 2)

I looked down the hallway at where the bedroom door was closed, wondering what he was thinking, feeling. How angry was he right now? Angry enough to hate me when this was all said and done? Angry enough to wrap his hands around my throat and squeeze the life out of me?

Maybe I could convince him otherwise. Maybe I could be with him.

What the hell? No, I couldn’t be with a man like him. Never… right?

I turned my attention back to the food on the counter, the bread sitting off to the side, the sandwich ingredients ready to be placed on those twin pieces. He had to be hungry. Thirsty too. It had been hours since I’d brought him back to my place.

I washed my hands and started making the sandwich, and once everything was piled on the plate, I added a handful of chips on the china. I reached out with my free hand for a bottle of water and turned, ready to go back to the room, when a startled cry left me.

Involuntarily, I took a step back, the plate falling from my grasp as it shattered on the floor, all the ingredients scattering across my feet. I still held the bottle of water, my fingers wrapped tightly around the plastic, the sound of my grip squeezing it loud and obscene.

Just twenty feet from me was Cullen, his massive body taking up the entire entryway of the hallway. Shadows partially concealed him, but it was the gun he held that had my heart stopping.

He still had the twine wrapped around his wrists, and I could see blood covering his forearms.

“Oh my God,” I found myself saying and snapped my gaze back up to his face. He was unmoving, not even blinking. I didn’t even think he breathed. “What are you going to do?” I felt like I stuttered those words out. “Kill me?” I didn’t know why I asked that, the question hanging between us as if it was almost a challenge, a taunt.

I was terrified in this moment, seeing him standing there like some kind of menace, some kind of monster. But even though I felt that way, even though my heart was racing, and adrenaline was rushing through my veins, and the flight-or-fight response rose up in me violently, I also felt… arousal. It was as if my life balanced on the precipice of being extinguished, like there was this rush, this desire that clenched through every single part of me, squeezing my veins, my lungs, my very heart until I was gasping for air.

And all the while, I stood there, unable to move or run, react or fight back.

“Well?” That lone word was whispered from me, and even though he took a step forward, and another, still I stayed rooted to the spot. The water bottle fell from my hand and landed on the island before rolling off the granite and onto the ground with a thud.

Move. Run. Fight back.

Those words played over and over in my mind in rapid succession as perspiration dotted my brow, as my breathing increased. And the closer he got, the more reality set in.

I found myself taking a step back and then finally turned and all but ran toward the front door, unsure where I would go, how I would escape. The storm was brutal outside. I wouldn’t even be able to see five feet in front of me. And I had no shoes on, no jacket. But none of that mattered, because all I was thinking about was getting out of here, getting away from him. Surviving.

But was I really trying to get away from him? Was I really trying to do that? Or was I just telling myself that to make it seem better that I had twisted desires for a man who wanted me dead?

Before I could reach the front door, I felt his hand on my wrist. It wasn’t painful, wasn’t forceful. It was firm, secure. He spun me around and pressed me against the wall, his body heat slamming into me, the very presence of him intimidating. He blocked out everything behind him.

All I saw was him.

He took up my entire field of vision, and everything in me heightened, alert. I had to crane my head back just to look into his face, and there was no way I couldn’t. No way I wouldn’t. I had to read him, his expression, to try to find out what he would do, what his next step would be.

“What are you going to do to me?” I whispered, my voice thick, and it had nothing to do with fear.

It had everything to do with need.

I stared into his dark eyes, ones that were like a demon’s, or maybe the very devil himself.

“Who are you?” I whispered when I could breathe again.