Page 32 of The Stalking King

I roll my eyes. “Does this seem better to you?”

“I wanted to see you,” he says, like that explains everything.

A silence passes. We eye-fuck the hell out of each other, even while I’m pretending not to. Maksim is definitely more talkative over text. On the phone, he’d be much more expressive. But I think he finds it difficult in person. Maybe it’s a lifetime of conditioning.

“Satisfied with what you see?” I ask.

“More than satisfied,” he says, reaching out as if to touch me.

I step back, gesturing to the hospital. “It’s weird enough I’m staying in some secretive millionaire’s safehouse, guarded by people I can’t even see when I try. I don’t want any workplace gossip added on top of that. Anyway, I still haven’t decided if I forgive you.”

“I did a strange thing,” he says, voice deep and husky. “But I can’t apologize.”

I blink, then blink some more. Is he serious? “So you know it was wrong, but you can’t apologize?”

“Pretty much,” he says, with a small, infuriating smile. It’s infuriating because it makes me want to smile too.

“Am I still in danger?” I ask. “Do I need to stay at your place?”

His smile vanishes. His expression grows dark. He looks at me like I imagine he must look at everyone else, without any of the light entering his eyes. It’s the first time I’ve truly understood just how terrifying he is.

“Yes,” he says fiercely. “Don’t get any silly ideas. In this town, people are always watching. That’s before you even get started on… my business.”

“Your blackmailing criminal enterprise, you mean.”

“Never say anything like that to anyone else,” he snaps.

“Or what?”

He steps forward, heat radiates from his muscular body. I’m stunned by the atmosphere between us, the small gestures, like him raising his hand then lowering it. Like he needs to remind himself not to touch me. Or the way I twist my head, then stop when his savage gaze flits to my neck as though he’s a vampire debating taking what he believes is his.

“I’ll be forced to hurt the people who try to hurt you,” he growls. “No one can know you understand anything about this.”

“Hurt them, like give them a slap on the wrist? Or something worse?”

He just looks at me. Bleak, dark, terrifying. How can I want this man when it’s so easy to see how he can spread fear through this city?

“You shouldn’t ask questions you don’t want the answer to.”

“You can’t come here anymore,” I tell him. “If you want me, text me. But you can’t just show up at my work. I’ve got enough to worry about without letting my breaks run on all afternoon. In fact, I might be in trouble now just for talking with you.”

His frown deepens.

“This is stalking with conditions, tough guy,” I say. “Can you handle that?”

“Perhaps,” he says, voice low.

“Promise.”

“I promise I’ll text you if I slip up,” he says, then turns to his car.

I stare at his back, his broad shoulders, his muscled arms, his everything. This is all madness, but there’s a feeling buried beneath that. Excitement. For the longest time, my life has been a grief-stricken routine, self-repressed order, one day rolling into the next while I try to pretend I’m not torn up on the inside.

Now, there’s something to look forward to. It’s not perfect. It’s messy and confusing. But I still want it.

What does that say about me?

I hurry back into the hospital, deciding not to answer that question.