Page 12 of Blood Owed (Blood Mafia 1)
I’m completely and totally fucked.
His breath fans over my face, and he grins. “I do love them feisty.”
Why is this fucker so charming?
Using my free arm, I bring my elbow around and hit his face. He lets go of my wrist and curses. Call me rude, but I don’t wait to see if he’s okay. I sprint up the three flights of stairs, hating how much they wobble, and slip my key into the doorknob.
“We don’t have to do it like this,” he calls up the stairs. His steps are slow and steady as if he isn’t worried about losing me.
The door falls open when I twist the handle and slam my shoulder into it. I snap it shut, lock both locks, and rush to the kitchen. I toss my purse and keys on the counter.
Good thing I like to cook. I have a veritable buffet of weapons to choose from. The chef’s knife is by far the sharpest and most sturdy. The fact that this is the second time in as many days I have had to heft a knife while being chased doesn’t escape my notice.
This is not my day, my week, my month, or even my year.
The doorknob rattles when he tries to open it, and I hear him let out a heavy sigh. “We really don’t have to do this the hard way. Come on out and we can talk like civilized people.”
Yeah, because the mafia run by vampires is fucking civilized.
“I’m good,” I say as I walk toward the living room. My eyes never leave the door because my instincts tell me this guy isn’t going away.
He mutters something about always getting the shitty jobs and then the door thuds loudly. On the second kick he breaks the door, and it swings wide. His painfully beautiful gaze flits around the apartment before resting on the knife in my hand.
“You’re a good fighter, eh?”
No, I do not preen—okay maybe I do but it’s not every day a woman is complimented on her fighting abilities from a dude in the mafia, let alone a vampire. Consider my day made.
Well, maybe the minute is made. This day is going to suck.
“You’d really stab me?” His smile is disarming.
He’s really attractive.
I’ll make sure not to stab that pretty face.
“You think I’m pretty?”
Oh shit. “I said that out loud?”
Mafia man takes a step forward. His eyes track my every movement. When I grip the knife tighter, he says, “You’re not so bad yourself.”
I scoff. “I’m covered in sweat and I reek.”
“You smell delicious.” His voice is husky and a shiver races down my spine.
What the hell am I doing having a flirty conversation with the man sent to kill me? Why else would he be here? The mafia doesn’t like loose strings and that’s exactly what I am: an errant strand in need of disposing.
The wholeI might be a psychotheory is proving to be one hundred percent correct.
He takes another step closer during my momentary distraction. His hand is outstretched, and he has a strange little smile on his face.
“Are you a mind reader?”
“No,” he says, taking another small step.
I take one back. The curtain brushes against my shoulder. Damn it. He cornered me. “Why are you smiling then?”
The infuriating man quirks his brow. “Why are you?”
