Menace (Scarlet Scars #1)(18)

“Let’s try this again,” he says, staring me in the face. “I say I want my money, and you say…?”

“Okay,” I whisper.

He cocks his left eyebrow, like he finds my answer curious. “Okay?”

“I don’t know what you want me to say.”

“I want you to say you’ll give me my money.” His hand grasps my chin, tilting my face further toward him. “And then I want those pretty lips of yours to beg me for mercy, because depending on how fast you pay me back, I might be inclined to take it easy on you if you ask.”

Before I can say anything, much less what he wants me to say, the man steps back, removing himself from my personal space, like just expects me to comply.

I suspect he’s used to getting his way.

“I’ll give you your money,” I say quietly, taking a deep breath.

He nods. “Good girl.”

I cringe at those words as I shove past him, heading for the rooftop door leading to my apartment. I don’t exactly know who he is, or what he’s capable of, but if he’s ballsy enough to threaten George, I can’t rule out him being some kind of monster. My mind’s a flurry of thoughts, none I can seem to get a firm grasp on. Scar, they called him. I don’t even know how he found me, which is most concerning of all.

How the hell did he get here?

The man walks in step with me, not letting me out of arm’s reach. It isn’t until I hit the warmth of my apartment, heading back down those metal steps, that I realize how cold the outside is. My teeth chatter, my skin flushed, body trembling. My hands are like blocks of ice, and I flex my fingers, trying to loosen them up again.

I head for the kitchen, having only a few seconds to pull myself together and do something.

He steps into the room behind me.

The moment he does, I lunge.

Throwing my body against his, I knock him back a few steps, catching him off guard with the force of the hit. His shock buys me enough time to put up a fight, to swing and kick and flail, kneeing him in the nuts.

BAM.

He flinches, hunching over from the low blow, giving me the chance to shove him into the stove. Reaching into the sink, I frantically feel around, blindly snatching up a dirty steak knife. I hold it up to his neck when he comes at me, the jagged blade pressing against his Adam’s apple, digging into the skin.

“I’ll slit your throat,” I tell him, my voice steady, even though my hand is shaking so hard I almost accidentally cut him. “I swear, I’ll—”

He reacts fast, so fast I don’t anticipate it. Grabbing my wrist, he twists my arm, gripping tight, damn near pulling my shoulder out of socket. I grit my teeth to stifle a cry, pain ripping up my arm. His fingers dig into the underside of my wrist, jagged nails tearing at the skin as he presses against the pressure point, forcing me to loosen my hold. He rips the knife away with ease, still clutching my wrist, staring at my tattoo.

Which he scratched.

Which is now bleeding.

Ugh.

“Morgan,” he says, his face contorting. “I was surprised to hear that was your name. I expected it to start with an ‘S’. Makes me curious what this thing stands for.”

He shoves my wrist into my face, making me hit myself. I scowl, trying to yank free from his grasp. “I’d rather die than tell you about it.”

“That can be arranged,” he says, letting go of my arm before tossing the knife back in the sink. “I want my money, Scarlet. I’m not going to tell you again.”

I clutch my wrist, frowning, and stalk away from him, my heart viciously pounding in my chest as I head for the bedroom, not surprised that he follows.

He’s not going to let me out of his sight.

A few crumpled bills lay on top of the stand beside the bed. I grab them, my stomach gurgling. I feel around in my coat pockets before scouring through my duffle bag, grabbing every cent I have left to my name before turning to him. “I’ve got three-hundred dollars.”

He stares at me. “Three hundred.”

“Well, more like two-ninety-four, but close enough.”

“There was a thousand dollars in my wallet. Where is it?”

“I don’t have it.”

“What did you do with it?”

I don’t answer that, biting my cheek. I’m not telling him. It’s none of his business, and I need him far away from my situation. Far away from me.

“Look, can’t we just…?” I motion to the bed, bile burning my chest as it forces its way up my throat, punishing me for making this suggestion. “You know.”

“Fuck?” he guesses.

I swallow thickly, nodding.

He steps closer, invading my personal space once more. I have room to move away but I stand my ground, not wanting to recoil from his advances. I don’t look him in the face, keeping my head down, but I feel his breath against my cheek as he leans over, whispering, “We can f*ck, absolutely, if that’s what you want. But you’ll still owe me afterward, because I don’t pay for *, especially * that has a habit of whoring itself out to cops.”

A shiver rips through me.

My knees go weak.

That weird feeling still lingers inside of me, and I realize, the whole time, it was him. He was there. He followed me. I don’t know how, but my gut says he did.