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Tristan 'The Predator' Caine.
They called him the predator. His reputation preceded him. He rarely went on the hunt but when he did, it was over. When he did, he went straight for the jugular. No distractions. No playing around. For all his unruffled attitude, the man was more lethal than the knife cutting into her thigh. He was also the reason she had come to the party. She was going to kill Tristan Caine.
The voice of hard whiskey and sin.
A walking, talking Mission Impossible, that's what he was.
She'd been raised around sharks. And she'd learned not to bleed.
"Courage takes only a second to become foolishness," he said quietly, his dark eyes alert. "Keep that in mind."
"No one else gets to kill you, Ms. Vitalio," he spoke quietly. "The last face you see before you die will be mine. When it comes to death, you're mine."
Tristan 'The Predator' Caine cooked. Would wonders never cease?
In that moment, the man who'd claimed her death had given her a glimpse of life by doing something he probably didn't even realize he'd done. In that moment, the enemy had done what no one had ever even tried to do for her. He had made her feel a little less lonely. The moment would be over when the sun came out. But for that silent moment, something inside her beyond her own understanding, even as she hated him, shifted.
"We've been honest so far, Ms. Vitalio," he murmured. "I'll be honest now. I despise you but I want you. Fuck it, I do. And I want you out of my system."
HERE WE FUCKING GOOOOO
"Break his arm next time,"
She gulped. Blue.
And this man made her want to scream like a banshee on crack, which although wasn’t the most enticing imagery, was very appropriate.
Whiskey and sin. Molten lava and dancing flames.
She was fucking another asshole at the moment, so her schedule was full.
It was his eyes. Blue, magnificent eyes. Blazing eyes.
Inches. Mere inches.
