She might’ve laughed if she weren’t failing to breathe. This man didn’t give a shit about her condition. No one did. With his arms wrapped around her and his exhales on her neck, she’d never felt more helpless. She wanted to drop to the ground and retreat into herself, but she was better than that, dammit. “Let go.”
He didn’t. She might not be able to overpower him, but she still had her voice. If all he wanted was an answer, she could give him a revolting one. “You want to know what’s wrong with me? My genital herpes has flared up. You know, blistering sores, cracked open and itching? My Valtrex prescription is in one of these packages.” She scanned the ground, gasping, humiliation screeching through her voice. “To make matters worse, I started my period. I can feel it dripping down my leg.” There. That would send any guy running.
He laughed. The motherfucker laughed. Either he knew she was lying or he was a sick fuck.
Somehow, her struggling only shifted her closer. A waft of cut hickory and citrus flooded her nose as his lips brushed her cheek. “You are a captivating surprise, Amber Rosenfeld.”
Oh my God, he knew her name? Her muscles heated, more desperate than ever to get away from him. She threw an elbow, and it bounced off his rigid stomach. “If you don’t let me go, I...I’m—” She sucked in a breath, her voice gravelly and broken. “I’m going to bleed all over you.”
He chuckled. “I don’t mind a little blood.” He tightened his grip. “Besides, you can’t even stand on your own.”
Ragged sobs swallowed her breaths. She lurched forward, hands slashing at the air, reaching for the door, going nowhere. “How do you know my name?”
He kicked at the scattered envelopes. Her name and address labeled overdue bills, fliers, and catalogs in block print, glowing in the stripe of light that escaped the crack in the door.
Okay, so he knew her name. She just needed to grab the package with the dye and hustle her ass inside. She twisted in his arms and swept a foot, toeing for an envelope with bulk. Her lungs burned with exertion. Fucking shit, where was it?
A renewed bout of panic hiked her pulse and sealed her airway. What the hell was she thinking? Fuck the package. She had to break free. Lock the door. Call the cops. She could reach the door in one or two running leaps.
Her heart raced, nearly exploding, as she thrashed against him. His arms pinned her biceps, so she swung her fists, aiming for his groin and missing. He wrestled her hands to her sides, everything moving too quickly to process. She simply reacted, slamming her head back again and collided with his chest.
The grunt of pain that followed resuscitated her flight response. She thrust all her weight against his arms, her heels scraping the concrete. “Let me go, you psycho.”
His exhales grew heavy, curling over her shoulder and pitching her into a breathless frenzy. The more she shoved against him, the tighter his arms constricted, lifting her until her feet kicked air. “What are you fighting? Fear?” His mouth touched her ear, his timbre a silken noose around her neck. “Fear is an imposture, little girl. It doesn’t bruise or thrust or bite.” His grip tightened. “Fear is not your Master.”
Oh, holy mother. What was he saying? The terrible dread that occupied her belly bristled with thorns, impaling her with nightmares of public places, crowds, nowhere to hide, loss of motor control. And now her superficial fears embodied a very real, in-the-flesh threat.
He was going to take her, discover all her imperfections, and reject her. Abandon her somewhere away from home. Or kill her.
A furor of tears shot through her eyes and soaked her lashes. She clawed at his arms and stabbed her heels at his shins. If she could refill her lungs, she might be able to muster a scream big enough to wake the neighbors.
But she’d never seen a single person who lived on her street. How judgmental were they? If they came out, would they just stand there and gape? Oh God. “I have nothing you want.” She panted, choked. “I’m nothing. Let me...go.”
“As you wish.” His arms vanished.
The concrete stoop crashed against her knees, and pain ricocheted through her legs. Oh God, maybe he’d only been trying to help her stand? She’d overreacted, made a freak of herself.
She gagged on a sobbing exhale, and her fingers scraped the ground, searching for the package and coming up empty. Another torrent of nausea gripped her body, singeing her insides and spinning the ground beneath her.
She pushed through the disorientation and crawled toward the door as fast as she could. The metal threshold sliced her knees, but she was too numb and dizzy, seconds from fainting. She could feel him behind her, a thick cloud of judgment with eyes scorching her skin, witnessing her shame.
You think they don’t know how fucked up you are? Everyone knows. You’re a fucking embarrassment.
Oh, if Brent could see her now, dragging her body, snot dripping from her nose. What a fool she was. Maybe the prowler would shoot her and put her out of her misery.
She gripped the doorjamb. Fuck Brent. Fuck all of them. She pulled her legs inside and glanced at the blockhouse of muscle behind her as she swung the door. And froze.
The interior light caught the face within the hood. Her heart constricted, and her hand stopped the door, just a crack.
He hadn’t moved from where he’d released her. Hands in his pockets, he regarded her with a lift of one dark eyebrow. His full lips pursed around a toothpick, hollowing his cheeks. A strong jaw and hard gray eyes roughened his model-like prettiness. But the thick scar bisecting his cheek was what stayed her hand, pinning her to the floor and summoning the deepest, most
