Page 3 of Vendetta Vows

Look what you made me do.

I suppress an involuntary shudder and try to force those awful words into the vault where I keep them locked away.

It isn't until he steps closer, his expression thoughtful, that I finally manage to push them down again.

"How would you have him take that first step towards reaching that understanding?" he asks. "Show her that he can protect her from the others in his world, especially from himself?"

"That's a start," I admit. "But she'd need agency too. She can't just be a damsel in distress. She'd have to be the one to confrontherpast, and he has to be the one who empowers her to do so."

I've never talked this much to anyone at work, let alone a stranger. But he keeps nodding, keeps asking questions, and keeps drawing me out until I'm gesturing wildly, completely absorbed in our conversation as he picks up one page after another.

Finally, he gathers the last errant page and steps toward me, extending the now-neatly stacked script.

Our fingers brush as I accept it, and electricity shoots up my arm. His eyes catch mine in the dim light, and for a moment I can't breathe.

"You seem to understand trauma better than these writers do," he says, his fingers lingering against mine.

His face is inches from mine, those golden eyes reflecting the dim glow of the alley lights.

For one wild, reckless moment, I imagine what it would be like if he were to close that distance. I dare to imagine his lips capturing mine in a hungry kiss that leaves me breathless. I dare to fantasize about his large hands sliding around my waist and lifting me up until my back is pushed up against the brick wall.

My breath quickens as the fantasy unfurls.

In my mind, his powerful body envelopes mine, the script long since forgotten as the pages go scattering in the wind again, and his tongue sweeps into my mouth.

It's been so long since I've felt any kind of connection like that, and I crave it as much as a dying man in a desert craves a single drop of cool water.

But as soon as desire enters my head, my brain forces that dark memory back to the surface.

The smell of blood in the air. The taste of coppery fear on my tongue. And that message scrawled on the walls in dripping crimson.

Look what you made me do.

I jerk back so suddenly I almost trip over my own feet.

I can't.

I'm turning into Isabella from the script: a naïve girl throwing herself at danger because it comes wrapped in an attractive package.

No, not like Isabella in this ridiculous script.

I'm worse.

She didn't know better.

But I do.

The man's hands drop immediately to his sides, giving me space without a hint of offense or confusion. The gesture catches me off guard almost as much as my own reaction.

Most men would press forward, ask questions, and demand explanations.

But not him.

He just waits, those golden eyes watching with something that looks remarkably like understanding.

"Sorry," I manage, pulling the script tighter against my chest like armor. "I just?—"

"No apologies needed, and thank you for the insight."

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