Page 6 of Unrequited
He crowds me suddenly, pressing me into a darkened doorway. Above us, the clouds shift, moonlight breaking through in a silvery wash across the sky.
“I bought you a drink,” he says, with a tinge of annoyance. “And you won’t even give me a kiss?”
Don’t guys buy girls drinks? Was that some weird expectation I didn’t know about?
He leans in, mouth slightly parted, and for one crazy, wild second, I’m convinced he’s a werewolf. That he’s about to bare his teeth and bite me, or throw back his head and howl into the night.
I shiver.
I’ve read too many books.
“No,” I say more firmly. “Not now.”
My voice leaves room for a maybe, but that doesn’t matter. Not now. Not like this.
I put more force in my tone. “Give me my phone.”
But he doesn’t. His eyes flash at me, and I realize even though he’s notthatmuch bigger than I am, I’m small and alone, and I’m not sure I could get away that easily. And where would I even go?
Panic claws at my chest.
Fuck.
Shit.
Fuck.
Why did I do this? Why did I want to be alone? Why did I have to leave my brothers? Why did I have to prove anything to anyone?
I won’t scream. I can’t panic. My pride won’t let me. But I’m cornered. Vulnerable. And this man is too close.
“Come here,” he murmurs, his voice low and greasy. “Don’t be afraid. I’ll make sure you like it.”
“I saidno,” I snap, louder this time, clearer. Goddamn it, I’m Zoya Kopolova, and I knew how to shoot a gun before most of my peers knew how to drive a car. Why didn’t I think to bring a weapon? They’re as readily available in my house as a pair of shoes.
His face twists with anger, and he lets my phone fall to the ground. It hits hard, and I wince.
“Give me a fucking kiss,” he growls and shoves me back against the door.
My brothers taught me self-defense. They taught me how to shoot. But right now, every lesson vanishes. My mind blanks. I could get away from him, but without a weapon, a phone, or any idea of where I am…
He grips my chin and pushes me again when a voice cuts in.
“You’ll leave her the fuck alone now.”
The voice comes from behind us. Thick Irish accent. Cold. Dangerous.
“You do what I say by the count of three, or I’ll slice your feckin’ throat. Try me. It’s been too damn long.”
The man holding me jolts and spins. “Who the fuck are you?”
The stranger steps into the light. Late twenties, maybe early thirties. At least ten, twelve years older than I am. Tall. Still. Radiating power and calm like a storm waiting to break.
Even in the dim moonlight, his blue eyes glint like cut sapphires. A five o’clock shadow shades his jaw, and a scar cuts through one eyebrow. Ink curls around his collarbone and disappears beneath his shirt.
The man watching me from inside the bar. He followed us?
Did Rafail put him up to this?
