My cheeks flame with heat. “I mean, I assume that’s why you’re here. To get it back.”
When he doesn’t respond, I add meekly, “Right?”
“I’m not here for the money.”
Breathe. Don’t pass out. Lungs, if you fail me now, I’ll start smoking ten packs of cigarettes a day to get back at you.
“It’s a lot of money, though.”
“Not to me. But the amount doesn’t matter.”
We sit in another space of nerve-racking silence while my heartbeat crashes in my ears and the entire bed trembles underneath me, until I gather enough courage to venture, “So if you’re not here to get back your money, and you’re not”—gulp—“going to hurt me…why are you here?”
He takes his time responding to that. I feel him thinking about it, mulling it over in his head.
Finally, he says, “I don’t know.”
He sounds bewildered. Not like he’s playing a game, but like he honestly has no idea why he suddenly found himself in my bedroom in the middle of the night.
His confusion makes me relax.
I mean, serial killers usually know why they broke into your bedroom, right?
I decide I’d like to see his expression and reach over to the nightstand for my glasses. But my sudden movement causes him to react. It happens so quickly, I don’t even have time to blink.
He grasps my wrist in his big hand and growls, “Don’t try to shoot me. A bullet in my gut will only make me mad.”
He towers over me, a forcefield of heat and tension beside the bed. He’s so close, his warm breath brushes my ear.
“I was reaching for my glasses!” I blurt, panicking. “I don’t have a gun!”
After a beat, his grip on my wrist softens. Then he releases me and steps away, standing close enough to the bed that I can still see his form.
I scramble for the glasses, shove them onto my face, and stare up at him in cold fear.
His height makes him even more terrifying. From this angle, I feel like I’m craning my neck to gaze up at a skyscraper. Only it’s so tall, I can’t see the top. His face is wreathed in darkness.
Then he bends his long legs and kneels beside the bed, bringing his face into view.
Even through the shadows, I see the intensity in those pale green eyes.
I see how they search.
How they burn.
I make a bleating sound, like a scared lamb. It’s involuntary, and I hate myself for being such a wuss. His reaction seems involuntary, too.
He shushes me softly. He reaches out and caresses my cheek, cooing a stream of gently spoken words.
“Ty v bezovasnoshti so mnoy, malyutka. Ya ne prichinu tebe vreda.”
Russian. It’s Russian he’s speaking.
I recognize it without knowing how and almost fall out of bed.
Recap: a huge, beautiful Russian man broke into my bedroom. Ten feet away from a row of toilets, he gave me one hundred thousand dollars and told me I had pretty eyes. He can appear and disappear like smoke, smells like an ancient forest, and has a voice, a body, and a face that make me want him to do bad things to me.
He thinks I’m a prisoner. And a prostitute.
He’s confused about pretty much everything else.
Also, he’s still caressing my face. I hope he’ll keep doing that forever.
My voice shaking, I say, “I feel like you should tell me your name now. I need to know what to call you.”
Kneeling with one tattooed hand spread open over his massive thigh and the other on my jaw, he stares so hard at me, he can probably see my bones.
“You can make one up if you want. Or I’ll make one up for you, if you prefer. It’s just that I can’t keep calling you Giant Hot Dangerous Stranger in my head too much longer. It’s a mouthful, you know?”
His thumb sweeps back and forth over my cheekbone so slowly and gently, I’m getting hypnotized.
“Riley.”
Ignoring my request for his name, he tests my name on his tongue instead. He says it again, even more softly than the first time. He blinks, frowning, and shakes his head slightly. I can tell he doesn’t understand what’s happening.
Me, neither.
“Riley Rose,” I say breathlessly, feeling electrocuted. Feeling every beat of my heart and every hot pulse of blood roaring through my veins.
Why am I not screaming for the guards? As soon as I ask myself that question, I know the answer: I don’t want the guards to come.
Gazing at me like he’s witnessing his first sunrise, he lightly sweeps his thumb over my top lip. He whispers gruffly, “You’re made of fine materials, Riley Rose.”