Fatal Instincts (Book 1, the Fatal Trilogy Series)

Chapter 2.

There was no question in my mind, this was Daimon Kross.           

I wanted to react to him, but I didn't let myself.  

I did on the inside though.         

Holy freaking baby Jesus mother Mary and the whole gang, this guy was...there wasn't a word. I didn't know men that looked like this existed outside of a Hollywood made film. First of all, like the others, he was huge. Shoulders so broad I'm sure he could easily drape me over them, not that I'm picturing that, and he had to be at least 6'4. I'm not short by any means, actually a little tall for a girl, but jes-us was he up there. His black t-shirt probably deserved a metal the way it was working its little heart out keeping his thick muscles contained, and I was more than a little curious about the lines of tattoos I could see running out of the neck out his shirt and his sleeves.

As if his body wasn't distracting enough though, his face was everything a face should be. A thick jaw with just enough scruff, dimpled chin, cut cheek bones, long sharp nose with a pale white scar across the top, and those eyes...deep set amber colored eyes fringed with jet black lashes and over shadowed by the thick lines of his black eye brows. He looked dangerous, he gave off a whole sense of danger, and somehow, my body wanted to drive right past all of the caution signs and collide with him anyway.

Luckily, I'm the one in control, not my body.

With a very well-practiced level of disinterest, I look away, looking to my nails on my right hand, the glossy black paint is fine, but I pretend to look for an imperfection.

"I'm Alyssa," I tell him, turning back to look him right in the eyes. "Who are you?"

I already, know, I just ask to piss him off. The way his eyes narrow tell me it worked.

"Kross," He says with an air of authority. "Daimon Kross."

I laugh at his seriousness, probably a bad idea, but you can tell the guy thinks a lot of himself. "Bond, James Bond." I mimic in a deep voice, turning my back to him while I throw away a couple empty bottles.

When I look back he's leaned forward, elbows on the bar, hands gripping my side of it.

My god, he has nice hands.

His eyes narrow in on mine. "Careful." He whispers. I know his type. The kind that thinks he owns anyone he decides he wants to own. But I can't be owned. Not anymore. I turn to walk away, but his booming voice stops me. "I want a beer."

"I'll go get Becca for you." I look at him over my shoulder.

His whole body tenses. "I didn't ask for Becca." He grinds out. "I asked you."

I just smile. "She'll be right down." I turn again, taking a few steps away, catching my breath while he can't see me.

"Hey, come back here and make me a drink, doll." I can hear the demand in his voice, he's practically begging for me to submit, but I won't.

I walk back, making him think he's getting his way. A coy grin tugs at the corners of his mouth, but I stop in front of him, leaning back against the other side of the bar. With a slow ease I cross my arms in front of me, expecting his gaze to dip to my chest that's now more pushed out in my tank, or even down to my legs in my short skirt, but his eyes remain locked on mine.

"I've got a name," I say evenly. "Learn to use it and you'll get your drink."

His eyes flash. "Nah, I like doll better."

I shrug one shoulder, biting my bottom lip. "Then I guess you'll be thirsty."

He tightens his shoulders and the muscle in his jaw pops. "I guess you won't be getting any of my money."