Page 3 of The Villain
“Little Moth,” he says. “Let me see your eyes.”
Without waiting, and without my permission, he reaches to push the butterfly mask to the top of my head and when skin touches skin, there’s a spark. I gasp and he stops. Did he feel that? It was electric.
“Better,” he says casually, making me doubt whether he felt anything at all.
I have to crane my neck to look up at him. In my ballet flats, the top of my head barely comes to his chin. He’s maybe in his late twenties, but he speaks with the same authority my father used to. The same confidence of a much older man. He manages to pin me utterly to the spot with just his gaze. His dark hair is pushed back from his face. Stubble shadows the carved line of his jaw. And those cobalt eyes, they don’t belong. They’re too beautiful. Too distracting.
Too deceptive.
This man is as brutal as he is beautiful. He’s dangerous. I have no doubt of that. Hell, I feel it in my bones.
As if reading my mind, his eyes narrow and he smiles. His gaze moves from my eyes to my lips, lower to the swell of my breasts and I’m very aware of how ragged my breaths are, how my heart is racing.
As if to show me he, too, knows, he brushes his knuckles over that racing pulse on my neck.
Again, I feel that electricity. A surge of it. My mouth goes dry as a desert and I want to move, to get away. To run out of this room. But I can’t. I don’t have command of my legs.
“Pretty Little Moth.”
“Butterfly,” I correct, my voice betraying my fear.
“Are you afraid of me, Little Moth?”
I shake my head slowly.
He smirks. He knows I’m lying. “Do you know who I am?” he asks, those knuckles moving along my collarbone, making me shudder.
Over his shoulder, I catch a glimpse of a photo of dad and I in the backyard standing in the snow barbecuing. He never cared how cold it was. If my father were alive, this man would not be in here. If my father were alive, he’d have this man dragged out of the house and beaten for daring to come so close to me. To touch me.
If my father were alive, he’d have his man brutally killed.
I remind myself of those things. I remind myself of who I am, and I steel my spine. I force my legs to move and step backward.
“I asked you a question. What the hell are you doing in here?” I ask with an authority that would make my father proud.
His mouth moves into a wide, satisfied smile now. He checks his watch, then casually slides his hand into his pocket. He’s so relaxed. So unconcerned. The movement pushes his jacket back and I glimpse the holster of a gun,the glint of metal. I wonder if he did it to show me. To let me know he’s armed.
This man, this stranger, has come into our home armed.
If my father were here, my mind starts again, but I stop the narrative.
My father isn’t here. He will never be here again.
“Get out,” I command him.
Again, the raising of an eyebrow, this time in clear amusement. He has no intention of leaving.
“As enjoyable as you are, Little Moth, I have business with your brother.”
I’m about to ask what the hell he’s talking about but before I can say anything, the door opens, and I turn to find two men I don’t know walking inside. They, too, are big, but have a different air about them than my stranger. These two are soldiers. Men who do what they’re told.
The one with the cobalt eyes? He’s the man who does the telling.
Behind these two, my brother enters and my heart thuds when I see his face looking paler than usual, sweat lining his hairline. Two more soldiers follow him in, and before they close the door behind them, I see more in the corridor.
This man managed to get his soldiers past our guards. I’m not sure if that says more about him or us.
Michael glances over his shoulder at the closed door before facing the stranger who I know instantly is no stranger to him. When Michael’s eyes land on me, he appears confused, but he masks it quickly.
