Page 8 of A Dance With Devils
I end up walking around Brett, getting myself back in front of the guy so I can ask him to leave before Brandon gets home and I haven’t got the slightest bit of control over anything.
“I think it’s time you left,” I mumble. “Brandon will be back soon and I-”
“Couldn’t give a fuck.”
My eyes widen, heart rate kicking up a few gears in either fear or anger, and I walk over to the main door to show him the fucking way out. “Leave.”
“You’re sure, Ally cat?” he says, rolling his body upright. “This could be your one chance at getting you all out of this hell hole and living a life that’s worthy of your beauty.”
The last of it makes me swing back to look at him again, part shocked with the word and part lost in what the rest of it means. Beauty? I can’t remember the last time someone said anything like that to me. I’m not beautiful. I’m sad and tired, wearing worn out fucking clothes, apart from my work uniform, and so full of deep holes and dents even I don’t know what they’re for anymore.
“I wouldn’t be here if you weren’t,” he continues, resting his arms on his knees. “I’d be hunting something else down to degrade and play with.”
At least he’s fucking honest.
Brett suddenly launches in my eye-line, his fist and body flying in as if he’s about to cause maximum damage. The response from the guy is three swift moves until Brett’s head is in some kind of chokehold and his body is pressed to the floor.
I hover, panic and uncertainty making me unsure what the hell to do next. I’ve never seen someone react that quickly before.
And I’ve seen a lot of fighting in my time.
This isn’t fighting, though. This is authority of a situation I’m feeling fucking lacking in.
“Stop,” snaps out of me. “Please, let him up.”
He doesn’t. He moves slightly, twisting his body to bring his knee up to Brett’s back and pin him down. Brett groans and howls, unable to do a thing about the pressure this guy’s got on him. Our eyes meet in the middle of it. Mine, wide and fearful. His, just the same but for the anger he’s not able to do anything with now he’s pinned down. The guy, though? I let my eyes drift over him, taking in the control, the calm, the sense of him not being remotely bothered about the location he’s in. I don’t know who he is, or why he’s here other than the fact that he wants me, but what I do know is we are not winning this fight if he chooses to get pissed unless I call jelly sandwiches.
“Let him up. Please. I’ll consider it if you let him up,” I eventually say.
The very second the last of it leaves my mouth, he releases Brett and stands to look me over again. Not one hair is out of place and there's barely a crumple in his clothes other than the ones already there. Try as I might to ignore it, the very real feeling of interest twinges in parts of me that have barely been touched these last two years. I can feel my legs squirming at the thought of a man – a real man. A man that takes control and deals with life so that I don’t have to anymore.
Still, jelly is most definitely needed.
“That was pointless,” he murmurs, as Brett scrambles up and gets in front of me again. “Don’t try it again.”
“You can fix the power?” I ask, attempting to cut the animosity down.
He nods, a glower on his face as he looks Brett over. “I said I would.”
I look at the clock on the wall behind him, trying to gauge how long it’ll be before Brandon gets home and help arrives. “How long will it take you?”
“You know that. I’ve already said.”
Twenty minutes. Plenty of time.
“Okay. Fix the damn electrics,” I mumble, turning away from him towards the kitchen. “I’ll make something to drink while I work out what the hell the rest of it means. Brett? You want a jelly sandwich to get you through?”
He doesn’t answer other than a grunt. But then he doesn’t need to. He knows as well as I do that this whole family doesn’t do jelly anything, and him disappearing into the other room, huffing as he goes, proves he’s in tune with what I’ve just told him.
“Is that a yes?” Mr fucking sensational asks.
I pick up a bread knife, intent on getting on with this charade, and try not to think about the guy talking to me other than getting him out of here. “I’m thinking about it,” I murmur, grabbing a bottle of soda and pouring some into a glass. “You want a drink? Whoever you are.”
He chuckles behind me. A low, dark chuckle to match his flawless dark hair. It only increases the fact that my thighs are clamping tighter the closer to me he gets. I can smell him over the rat infestation, almost taste the expensive aftershave and products under those battered clothes. He’s a damn enigma. Part dishevelled, and yet so far past the area he’s in that I doubt he’s ever seen the inside of a place like this before.
“Malachi.”
I look back at him “What?”
