Cardan
He has no sense of self-preservation.
That, or he’s a f*****g i***t.
The number of times I’ve come close to snapping this bastard’s neck is getting disturbing.
But he can’t sense the tension, or the f*****g rage coursing through my blood like a junkie's next best high. Because he stands there, watching me like I’m not seconds away from severing parts of him. Or he notices, and just doesn’t care.
“Where is Natalia?”
“Why are you here?”
We speak at the same time.
My head tilts, “What the hell did you just ask me?” The f*****g audacity of this guy.
He arches a single shoulder, letting go of the door to grip the towel hanging low on his hips, “I asked what you’re doing here,” he says, looking at me like he’s talking to a child.
“This is my house,” I say, “I don’t need a reason
