Slowly, he drags his gaze up my body, and it feels like it takes years for him to just look at me. When he finally does, I gasp, my hand tightening on his in reflex. No. That single word is all I can think, feel, scream internally as I stare up at the man I’m hopelessly in love with. “Me,” he whispers, a faint, almost indistinguishable red ring emanating from his gold-flecked onyx irises. “You should be scared of me.”
