Page 114 of Heresy

Tired of this back and forth, I walk toward him and stop when we’re toe to toe.

“Are you done pretending like everything is okay with this situation now? It’s getting old. Just tell me what you want so I can think about giving it to you—if I’m able—and then I can go home.”

And call the cops, I don’t add.

Shane runs a hand through his hair, that damn dimple indenting his cheek as he looks up at the sky instead of me.

I watch him struggle with what to say or do. Like he’s never been called out before. Like no other person has been able to actually see the man standing in front of me.

How many people? I wonder.

How many souls have been put through the wringer because this jackass wanted something they weren’t willing to give him?

Shane doesn’t present himself as what he truly is. Even now, he’s wearing a simple black T-shirt with a pair of torn and stained jeans. The bottom cuffs look like they were intentionally walked on, certain places fraying from the length being a bit too long.

Then again, maybe they wouldn’t look like that if he didn’t wear them so they hung off his narrow hips. I have no idea why I’m so fascinated with them now.

I make the mistake of looking down to study the fit of his clothes, and the only thing I see is a physique that has been blessed by the gods.

His body is what women imagine in their sweetest dreams, and it’s just one more weapon he uses, not just physically but also mentally.

Physically for the way he fights.

Mentally by catching a woman’s attention and holding it because he’s what people think of as the perfect, sculpted version of a man.

He’s not big and bulky, more lean and toned. But it’s his arms, chest and shoulders that draw your attention, those sleeve tattoos of his an artistic complement to the bulk of his biceps, the width of his strong shoulders and the cut of his chest.

All of that angles down to a trim waist which, I can see even beneath his shirt, is chiseled and tight.

Perhaps all the work he does on cars and whatever else he repairs or builds in the auto shop has gifted him his finest attributes, but it was pure genetics that blessed him with a face that has both a boyish quality when he laughs or smiles and the stern jaw and high cheekbones that I can’t stop staring at when I steal a glance his way.

Never believe the boyish smile, though. Underneath that is a charged carnality, an aggressive masculinity and a fighter’s spirit that I don’t believe can ever be tamed.

In a word, he’s stunning.

The type to stop you in your tracks.

And that’s what makes him dangerous.

I need to remember that about him, even during this pathetic act that he genuinely gives a damn about me. If he cared, he’d let me go. But no. I’m still here.

Captured.

Until I give up the information they want on my dad.

Shane is not the type to care.

He’s the type to take you to bed, take what he wants and then cast you aside when it’s over.

I’m sure there are dozens of women in this city alone who could tell that same tale.

I sure as hell won’t be one of them.

Finally, he gets his thoughts straight, shakes off the way I’d dared to call him out and plasters on the act again.

“I need a real detail.”

He catches my eyes while making the quiet demand, feigned sincerity rolling through the turbulent waves of that gorgeous stare. “About you. About why you seem so happily sheltered.”

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