But Too Well

III : Warning

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WHAT COMES NEXT happens so fast that I still find it hard to believe.

We're standing there, staring at each other, the elaborate lie we've created evaporating in the air between us. I know something bad is going to happen. I just don't know what.

Maybe, at this point, I should slam the door, locking it tightly and calling the police. Or maybe I could kick him hard, running past him and far away, out of sight. If I could one day look back at this moment, I would realize that there were so many options, any of which could have prevented what came next.

But I don't do any of them. Instead, I just stand there numbly, staring at that impossibly handsome face. He studies me, almost like a wild animal might before capturing its prey.

Those dark, glittering eyes glint as they meet mine, holding a challenge, a promise. It's terrifying, yet somehow, I can't tear my eyes away. I'm enraptured.

His gaze holds mine like a spell—like a dangerous, delirious kind of magic. I swallow, my heart racing, my head filling with panic and confusion and anticipation and an inexplicable, unidentifiable hunger. Damn it he's gorgeous.

Everything about him is perfect. There he is, after I just finished discovering he's a cold-blooded, murdering drug lord or something, and all I can do is stare, completely fixated.

Irrationally, I want to reach out and touch him. The thought makes me cringe, and, as he narrows his eyes, I snap out of my frightening trance. "Nero," I begin, my voice full of excuses, "I—"

In less than a second his hand shoots out, grabbing my arm and pushing me, hard, back into my apartment, a loud gasp escaping my lips. Shutting the door with his foot, he spins me around, pressing me forcefully against it, his hands tightly grasping my wrists. His nose is inches from mine, his breath a heavy whisper against my face, our chests almost flush. I close my eyes, shocked and unbelievably frightened about what's coming next.

I hear a deep, reverberating chuckle, so unexpected that my eyes snap open. The dryness in my mouth is almost too much to bear. Staring at him for only a split second, my gaze falls, unable to maintain contact with the intense darkness of his glimmering eyes that stay, shamelessly fixated, on my face.

"Let me go," I insist, my voice raspy yet thankfully firm. It sounds so much more sure and steady that I thought it possibly could.

He shakes his head absently, his eyes not leaving my face for even a second. His proximity makes me dizzy with a mix of fear and exhilaration, my heart beating loudly in my chest.

"Rosalina," he mutters, disappointment and warning filling his voice. I don't try correcting him again; something about the twisted, resonant, unfamiliar way his mouth shapes my name leaves a warm, tingling feeling, low in my gut. "What, exactly, did you hear?"

His eyes have a dangerous glint in them, and I should answer truthfully, immediately. Instead, some part of me is defiant, outraged. I haven't done anything wrong. He is the criminal, not me. My eyes meet his once more, my own challenge brewing.

"I don't know what you're talking about." I raise a brow, daring him to contradict me. "I had my headphones in for the last hour."

His eyes narrow as he scans my face, and I can tell that his surprise is growing. "What do you think, dolcezza, happens to people who lie to me?" He arcs a brown eyebrow.