Page 11 of Locke

He stared at me, and I couldn’t look away from that piercing stare if I tried. He was hypnotizing, like a dark, abstract painting come to life. “No,” he growled after a pause. “You’re both.”

What?

I tensed when he moved, my gaze trapped on the gun in his hand now as he brought it up. Oh, God. I held in my plea again, knowing it didn’t matter now—it was done. My fate was sealed, and I’d never even had the chance to fight for it.

Except…my body surged with sudden adrenaline, betraying my thoughts and the voice telling me to stay calm. How could I allow it to happen? I was not that kind of person. I was impulsive, prone to poor decision making, which was why I was anything but calm as I bolted past him, just barely managing to squeeze out of the stall. My heels immediately slipped along the wet floor, and I fell down awkwardly, my knees slamming to the ground. Fucking ouch! The flashlight shone in my direction, and then I saw what I was in: the blood on my knees, on my hands and arms, wet and warm. There was a dead man nearby, and I couldn’t fucking see him! I let out a whimper before trying once more to stand up. My legs bent awkwardly, my heels sliding along the slippery floor, and for a moment, I must have looked like a calf taking its first step.

The flashlight dimmed as Locke pocketed it. Then he came for me. I let out a quiet cry when he grabbed me before I’d even tried making my getaway, his grasp tight and unrelenting. He dragged me to the other side of the room and pushed my back against the wall. I buckled beneath his touch, fighting to get away from him, but he was crowding me now, pressing his front against mine. My eyes closed shut as I expected him to strike me, but nothing came.

I went wild.

I struggled against him, trying to use my legs, trying to knee him, trying to hit him in the face. I managed a few swipes, his growl feral when I dragged my nails into his cheek. He took my hand in a painful grip and forced it behind my back, so it was flattened against the wall. His body pressed tighter against me, forcing me still.

What should have troubled me about this entire altercation was I didn’t scream. Not once. My breaths were hard and quick, but I didn’t curse, didn’t shout for help, didn’t cry. In the moment, sheer panic flooded me, and I stood mutely against him, thrashing my body and getting nowhere.

Until I felt a cold press of steel under my chin and went dead-still.

I gasped, eyes wide open as I looked up at him, horrified as the barrel dug into my skin. He added a little more pressure, forcing my head to tilt up further. He didn’t speak, but the threat was there. One pull of that trigger and that bullet was going through my head.

He studied me, gauging my reaction as he continued to hold it there. He was going to kill me, but he seemed to be prolonging the inevitable. Was he savouring this? Was he enjoying the fear in my eyes as he looked down at me in the dim lighting? That flashlight was still emanating from his pocket, adding a soft glow between us.

I bit my tongue, tasting blood as tears sprang to my eyes. My being filled with anger, with hatred. Because fuck him for doing this.

“Fuck you,” I hissed as angry tears slid down my cheeks.

His gaze travelled down my face where the tears fell. And they wouldn’t stop. Pure disdain consumed me, along with a heartache that had built for years.

Pulling back the gun, he used the barrel to swipe them away. I stood tensely, glaring at him as he brushed the barrel down my neck and between my breasts where my tears ended. His throat bobbed as he kept the barrel there, that gaze slowly travelling back up to my parted lips.

“A fighter with a dirty mouth,” he murmured. “Not what I expected.”

Pulling his body back just enough, he peered down at me, his gaze settling over every inch of me. He looked me over thoroughly, and I felt that stare everywhere. His jaw locked as he avoided my eye now, his gaze trapped along my bare legs and then higher, to that invisible spot between my legs.

His silence was unnerving. He did not utter threats or curse. He didn’t need to with that gun in his hand. There was no hesitancy in Locke. He was so experienced, he didn’t seem to mind that the club had filed out, that the police were probably on the way, that any minute we—no, he— might get caught.

“Let me go,” I whispered, fighting the tremble in my voice.

He looked back at me, his eyes vacant of emotion. “Let you go?” he replied, inquisitively. “Have I even caught you?”

I glowered. “You’ve got a gun to my head!”

“You think I hold the power because of this gun?” When I didn’t immediately answer, he placed the gun on the sink, all the while staring straight at me. “What about now?”

He waited for my reaction.

I glanced at the gun on the sink and then back at him, trying to understand what the fuck he was playing at. Did I feel any better he wasn’t pointing it at me? No. I was still freaking the hell out. But then his gaze was back on my legs, that vacant expression cracking to reveal his dark intentions.

“Well?” he pressed, his tone dropping. There was no denying he had a beautiful voice. It was rich and deep. I imagined it could have sounded very sensual in another setting. Who was I kidding? He sounded sensual now. “Do I still hold the power?”

In response, my skin broke out in chills as his dark eyes traced the outline of my cleavage. My breasts looked perky in this dress. I’d felt hot as shit before, but now I wished I hadn’t worn this goddamn handkerchief. I looked like fresh meat (maybe I did that purposely).

“Yes,” I whispered now, attempting to appease him. Wasn’t that what you were supposed to do? Stroke a killer’s ego, make him feel all mighty. “You hold the power.”

He just stared at me, that face vacant of emotion, sort of like he could smell my bullshit from a mile away. “How come I don’t feel like I do?” he returned. “How come I feel like you’re playing with me?”

I shook my head. “No.”

“I’m wrong?”

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