The words echo louder than they should in this alley filled with rot and ruin. I blink. Once. Twice. Still bleeding, still standing, still trying to hold together what's left of my reality, and now this Armani wrapped cryptid thinks he gets to rewrite my species?
I laugh. It comes out rough and a little cracked, which feels appropriate considering I just fought off a meat puppet full of tar and now I'm being verbally dissected by a man whose cheekbones could cut glass.
"Yeah?" I rasp, dragging in a breath that tastes like rust. "Got any other fun facts, Sherlock? Want to tell me my moon's in Gatorade too?"
I'm trying to sound casual. Unbothered. But my hands are still shaking, my ribs still hurt like hell, and the blood soaking through my shirt is getting warm in all the wrong places. He just stands there, watching me like he can see every tick, every pulse, every hairline fracture in the wall I'm holding up.
The bastard doesn't even blink. So I do what anyone with half a brain and a fully functional fear response would do.
I take a step back.
And another.
Because I don't know what he is, not really, but I know enough. He didn't flinch at the creature. Didn't sweat, didn't breathe heavy, didn't try. He just touched it, and it died.
And now he's looking at me like I might be next.
My heart's pounding in my throat as I edge toward the mouth of the alley. Every instinct I've got is screaming leave, but something about him, the stillness, the way the shadows around his feet aren't moving quite right, tells me it won't be that easy.
I'm two steps from bolting when it happens.
I go to run.
More of a stagger. My legs don't want to play nice after the fight, and my ribs make a convincing argument against movement in general, but I've survived worse. I know how to run when it counts.
And this counts.
I pivot, boots scraping against cracked concrete, adrenaline rushing in to fill the space where logic used to be. One stride…
Nothing.
I don't fall, just stop.
Mid-step. Mid-breath. Someone hit pause on me and forgot to press play again. My limbs don't respond. My muscles don't fire, I'm upright and aware and pinned. A pressure on the soul, if that's a thing people still have around here.
Worse than a chokehold, more of a polite embrace, forcing the panic from my bones.
And, because I'm me, I take it.
"What the fuck?" I whisper, voice barely more than air.
My jaw moves, but the rest of me is a statue. My body belongs to someone else now, and he's standing behind me like he just found a toy he wasn't expecting to enjoy this much.
I feel him before I hear him. That hum again, crawling over my skin, turning every hair on my neck into a radar dish.
"You're not very grateful," he says, tone dry. "I saved your life."
"You erased a freak I was handling just fine."
He chuckles. A low, slow thing that vibrates through the air and slides down my spine like oil.
"Handled it right into a collapsed lung and a concussion, I'm sure."
I clench my teeth and will my feet to move. They don't. Rage flares up in my chest, bright and hot and useless.
He steps closer, a predator moving through tall grass.
"You're different," he murmurs, voice dipping low. "I felt it the moment you screamed."
"I didn't scream," I snap.
Now he laughs. "No. You didn't. That's what caught my attention."
He's unhurried, all the time in the world.
I can move now. Barely. It's like trying to wade through syrup. My arms obey, sluggish and stiff, and my knees threaten mutiny with every shift of weight. But my mouth? That's always been the sharpest blade I've got.
And right now, it's the only one not stuck in its sheath.
"You gonna let me go," I growl, "or are we still playing the mysterious stalker hits on bloody women in alleys game?"
He stops directly beside me.
Leans in.
I catch a whiff of something that shouldn't exist in this place. Clean linen, aged smoke, something dark and spiced and ancient. Whatever cologne he's wearing, it's expensive and probably harvested from the souls of extinct beasts.
His voice drops to a near-whisper. "You should've bled out ten minutes ago."
"Sorry to disappoint."
A hum escapes him as he circles me, the way rich men circle expensive cars they plan to crash. Every step is deliberate. Calculated. Hands clasped behind his back like this is a viewing and I'm the art. I hate how straight I stand. How aware I suddenly am of the torn hem of my shirt and the blood sticking it to my skin.
"You shouldn't smell this good," he says finally.
I roll my eyes. "You're a walking war crime in a three-piece suit and that's your opening line?"
"You smell like death," he says, ignoring me. "Like something marked but unfinished. Unclaimed."
"Wow. Romantic."
He stops in front of me again. Smiles.
It's not a nice smile.
"Maybe I should keep you Pet." he murmurs. "Dig around inside and figure out what you really are. Feed you. Fix you. Teach you some respect."
My spine locks up.
"Or maybe I'll stab you in the eye with my bottle and limp off into the sunset."
He chuckles. "There she is."
Then his heavy gaze drops, and lingers.
My pulse betrays me, the heat crawling up my neck betrays me. And the bastard notices.
His eyes flick up to mine. They're still that impossible violet, glowing violet.
I tighten my jaw. "You done eye-fucking me, or is this just foreplay before the ritual sacrifice?"
He laughs, quiet and genuine this time. The sound cuts sharper than any threat, like it's been a while since anyone talked back to him and lived.
"Oh, I like you."
"Feelings very much not mutual."
His smile widens.
I hate it.
He leans in, every inch of my body is on red alert and I'm pretty sure if I breathe wrong, he'll notice the way my thighs are trembling.
Not from fear. I wish it was fear.
"You don't know what you are, do you?" he murmurs, reaching up, just to hover a hand near my throat. Not threatening. Not quite. "All that power, leaking out of you like a busted fuse box, and you have no idea."
I slap his hand away. "Touch me and I'll bite harder than the last guy."
His head tilts, pleased. "That one was cursed. Nothing compared to what's in you."
"I'm a girl with sharp objects and no gag reflex for bullshit. That's it."
He exhales like I amuse him. Or maybe like I've just confirmed something he already suspected.
His gaze trails down again.
"You're shaking," he says.
"Because I'm injured."
He arches a brow.
"And your pulse?"
"Adrenaline."
"And the scent of you?"
"I will set you on fire." I growl.
He's close enough that I can feel the heat of him. Close enough that my instincts scream danger while something deeper, something primal, pulls taut inside me like a string being tuned too far.
His voice is silk when he says it.
"I'm not going to hurt you, Ash. Not until you beg me."
And just like that, the bottom drops out of the night.