“Are you okay?” he murmurs, his hand raising to brush softly along my jaw. I close my eyes at the gentle touch. “Don’t be nice to me,” I murmur. “Please—” He stills. Then his hand is under my chin, tipping it up. “Look at me, Hurricane.” Hurricane? Is that supposed to be me? Why does the nickname make my pulse flutter? I open my eyes and glance up at him. The light from his apartment is soft, casting half his face in shadow. He’s beautiful. Those sharp cheekbones and dark eyes put me in mind of a fae prince, cold and mysterious. Not to mention those pouty, kissable lips. “Are you okay?” he
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