My heart pounds as his eyes narrow at me. There’s anything but warmth in it. I wasn’t expecting to see warmth either.
Black hair falls across his sweaty face. The wet blood staining his hands and glistening across his shirt isn’t helping with my fear either. For a moment, I ignore his scent and focus on him. He looks…like he needs help.
He’s barely holding himself upright.
“Whose blood is that?” The words leave my mouth before I feel ready, and my heart pounds harder in anticipation of his response.
Without answering, without drifting his intimidating gaze from mine, he starts to climb the stairs faster. I rise to my feet totally, hoping tonight isn’t my last moment on earth.
He stops in front of me, towering against my small frame, the scent of him mixing with sweat and blood- drift
