Page 14 of Our Secrets and Scars

“You like that one?”

I jump, my hand flying to my chest to calm my racing heart.

How had I not heard him approach? Or felt him, even?

The heat of him is obvious now. It makes my skin tingle in the places that are closest to him, and the sparks travel through me, coming to settle at the point between my thighs.

I nod mutely.

“You’ve been doing a good job of pretending I don’t exist, little one.”

He’s right behind me. So close I can feel the warmth of his breath on my neck. But in total contrast to how I felt with Owen during class last week, it doesn’t repulse me or make me uncomfortable. It does something to me that I’m not sure I’m ready to admit to myself yet.

“Why do you call me that?” I ask, spinning to face him with a scowl on my face.

“What?”

“Little one?” I clarify.

He smirks. “Because you’re so little, I could fit you in my pocket.”

“You call every girl that?”

He raises an amused eyebrow at the accusation. “Not every girl is as small as you.”

“Hey.” I scowl. “I’m not even that short.”

“Yes, you are, Violet.”

I reel back. He used my name.

How does he know my name?

“I heard that jackass calling after you when you bumped into me the other week.”

“And you remembered?” I ask, lips parted in surprise.

He shrugs his shoulders. “Looks that way.”

I’m stunned, but I don’t allow myself to look too much into it. He’s probably just one of those people who is good at remembering names.

“Doesn’t seem fair that I still don’t know yours,” I say, cocking out my hip.

The corner of his lips tilt in a half-smile, a dimple appearing in his right cheek, but he doesn’t answer.

“You’re not getting anything done today?” he asks. “Scared of needles or something?”

I slap his arm lightly, electricity searing through me the moment our skin connects. I clutch my hand to my chest and try with all I have not to let my reaction to touching him show on my face.

His eyebrows raise knowingly.

“I’m not scared of anything.”

“Really?” He looks at me dubiously. “Didn’t seem that way when you were running from that guy last week.”

I snort. “Owen? That’s different. He’s a guy who’s double my size and wouldn’t leave me alone. I don’t know the type of person he is or what he’s capable of. Running from him was self-preservation.”

The man, whose name I still don’t know, frowns deeply as I talk. And I don’t miss the way his tattooed hands curl into fists at his sides or the way the muscles in his arms, which are covered completely in ink, seem to pull tighter.

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