Page 25 of Moth
“You want it, rabbit? Where’s my lighter?”
I stiffen, reaching into my pocket. A part of me despairs at relinquishing my one bit of leverage over him, for about a second. Even the thought of him pawing through my journal again makes me relent. “Here.”
I present it on my palm, and he snatches it. Juggling my journal, he grabs a cigarette from his pocket, then flicks the lighter one-handed and ignites the end.
Shoving the lighter back into my hand, he turns for the door.
Confused, I stare down at the ombre object before returning it to my pocket. As I do, my head swivels in his direction, tracking his retreat. “Wait! Give me my journal—”
“Come and get it, bunny. Hop this way.” He inclines his head for me to follow before he exits the shop entirely, letting the door slam.
I ignore the barb, preferring to focus on the obvious. I should leave. I am. Returning to the counter, I grab my bag, then I approach the door and cautiously pull it open. He isn’t lurking outside it.
Instead, he stands across the street, leaning against the entrance to another building—a run-down coffee shop I sometimes grab lunch at.
Determined to stay focused, I start down the block. A few more paces, and I’ll be home. But above the hum of traffic and passing pedestrians, my ears catch a distant, high-pitched whistle.
Don’t look. I won’t…
It’s too late. My chin tilts, bringing him within my line of view again. He’s still leaning against the doorway with a smile playing on his mouth, visible from here. It’s smug, containing a dare that lurks in the tilt of his lips.If you aren’t scared, then prove it. Come here.
And I should be scared.
“Hey!” someone hisses as my steps falter, forcing them to maneuver around me. “Watch where you’re going!”
So I watch, not taking my eyes off a smirking figure as I stumble into a crosswalk, drawn in his direction despite myself. With every advancing step, my brain struggles to rationalize the action. This is just a stupid show of pride—no, a singular quest to regain my journal. Nothing more.
As if reading my mind, he fishes the book from his jacket and flips through the pages with a knowing grin.
I walk faster, gaining on him within seconds.
“Give me my journal back.” The words come out breathless, made even more pathetic by the desperate attempt to pretend I’m not affected. My chin juts, my jaw squared.Youdon’t scare me.
He terrifies me. His body dominates the narrow entryway. Tall. Imposing. I’m one step away from digging through my purse for my pepper spray.
“Not yet, rabbit,” he warns as if reading my mind. “I need you to hop a little farther.” His voice is softer now, but no less unnerving as those dark eyes flicker along my jaw. He’s sizing me up—attempting to figure out just how much I’m willing to do. More, it seems. Alwaysmore. “Come on.”
He starts inside, cutting across the narrow dining room. A cashier freezes behind the counter, tracking him with her gaze, but she doesn’t call out in alarm. This must be a usual occurrence.
Without confessing, she turns her attention to me. “You’re blocking the way for our customers,” she says softly.
“S-Sorry.” I scramble out of the way, but once again, I’m moving in the wrong direction. Toward him, not away. He’s still just within my line of sight—a shadow darting across a crowded, busy kitchen and then down a hallway leading to a set of rickety stairs. They go up and up at least four flights or more.
I’m panting by the time I finally reach a partially opened door that leads to fresh air and a spacious strip of asphalt beneath the open sky. It’s an unexpected view. I have to blink to adjust to the shift in lighting from the harsh fluorescent interior.
We must be on the building’s roof, and a moment of shock distracts me from my quarry. Below, I can make out the streets intertwined like a maze, their streetlamps casting alternating red and green glows. It’s beautiful. Quiet. Secluded. Up here, the only light comes from an orange bulb positioned directly above the door.
A circle of light that Rafe steadily leaves behind, approaching a shadowed section on the other side of the space.
“Over here, rabbit.” He leans against a brick wall that must house another entrance, though I can’t see any door from here. “Hop.” With a wave of his hand—the hand I can make out holding my journal—he beckons me over.
I come close enough to snatch it, and this time, he lets me.
The familiar weight of it settles against my palms, and I nearly sigh in relief. “I’m leaving,” I rasp, pivoting on my heel.
“You won’t.” He inhales on his cigarette, making the end glow a brilliant orange. Then he holds it from his mouth and exhales a cloud of smoke into the air. “You’re a predictable, little bunny.”
His next breath sends a tendril of smoke drifting directly toward me.
