Hideaway (Devil's Night 2)
She turned her head in his direction, not seeing him, of course, but…she knew he was there.
His cigarette, laying on the edge of her dresser next to him, burned a stream of smoke up to the ceiling of her bedroom, clove and tobacco permeating the air.
She inhaled a long breath through her nose, a small gasp following. Her chin instantly began to tremble.
“Damon?” she barely whispered.
He smiled.
Fear etched her sweet, heart-shaped face as she shot out her hands in front of her in defense. “Damon, are you here?”
She turned her body side to side, bracing herself for whatever direction he might come from.
“Say something,” she said, sucking in shallow breaths.
But he only wanted to prolong this moment. Every one of his senses sharpened as he absorbed how helpless she was right now. She had to know he’d come someday.
Maybe for just a moment of her time. Or for a lot more.
She whirled around, still guarding herself for an attack. “Are you here?” she pleaded. “Say something!”
I’m right here, he thought. I’m staring right at you, but you’re not really sure, are you? There may be a man standing in your room right now. Watching your every little move as you walk about, completely unaware that he’s against the wall.
He may have even been here before. Several times.
She stepped toward the bed, feeling it hit her shins, and he watched as she instantly dropped down, scrambling across it until she found the nightstand. She waved her hands across the top, knocking over the lamp, the alarm clock, and sending some earrings flying.
But she stopped, realizing what she was searching for wasn’t there.
She wouldn’t find her phone where she’d left it. It was sitting next to his cigarette where he’d moved it to.
She could try to run, but screaming wouldn’t help. Her parents were out of town, and her sister no longer lived at home. Winter Ashby was alone in the house.
The girl who had sent him to prison four years ago.
He reached over, grinding out his cigarette on her dresser top and took a step. The floorboards of the old mansion whined under the weight of his more than six feet, and her breath caught in her throat.
She scurried off the bed.
Swinging around and keeping her arms in front of her, she screamed with tears in her eyes, “Get out! Get out now!”
She stumbled backward in her fright and landed into a wall, but…
No. It wasn’t a wall. What—?
She whipped around, small beads of sweat glistening on her chest. Hesitantly, she reached out her shaking hands and landed on a broad chest and a crisp shirt and jacket.
“No!” she screamed, rearing back.
But he caught her and pulled her in, her body going rigid. He wrapped his arms around her, holding hers down as he squeezed her tight against him.
His nose brushed her lips as he inhaled their scent. “You still wear it,” he groaned. “Watermelon Winter. I remember the taste.”
Her lip gloss. She was told it matched her complexion when she was younger, and she’d worn it ever since. More because the name had her name in it, and that made it special.
His lips grazed her cheekbone, and she tried to push him away.
“You’re disgusting!” she yelled, struggling to get out of his hold. “You make me sick!”