Raw (RAW Family #1)(7)

Shaking my head, I say quietly, “No, your given name.”

He looks annoyed. “That name was given to me.”

Now, I’m annoyed. “By your parents?”

He returns, “No. Does that make it any less my name? It’s the only one you’re getting, so take it or leave it.”

Hmmm. Interesting.

I look around the room, anywhere to avoid his eyes and ask, “Why do you…” stalk “…watch me?”

When I get no answer, I look up to find him inspecting me again.

It’s strange. He doesn’t look like a predator. Certainly doesn’t act like one. So what’s the deal?

Irritation surges through me quick as lightning. Placing a hand on my hip, I ask, “What is your deal?”

To that, I get a reaction. He smirks, knowing he’s getting to me, “It’s called people-watching.”

Frustrated, I scoff, “People-watching is watching multiple people. Different people in different situations. You are not people watching. You’re sta—”

All of a sudden, he’s up in my face. He’s so close, I can smell him.

“I’m what?” he says, daring me to say the ugly word.

Taking a deep breath, I wish I hadn’t. He smells really good. Like aftershave and musk…and all man.

I whisper, “I just want to know why you watch me?”

Not answering, he states acidly, “It was a f*cking good thing I was, don’t you think?”

An awkward, foul silence follows.

His eyes soften a little. “You’re shivering.” Pointing to my sofa, he says, “Sit.”

Lifting my hands, I see that I am shivering.

This man – Twitch – he does something to me.

Shuffling over to my sofa, I sit and cover myself with a blanket. I’m surprised when he follows me and sits at the opposite end. My surprise turns to stunned disbelief when he reaches into his pocket, pulls out a packet of M&M’s, and throws a few into his mouth.

He chews slowly, watching me watch his mouth. Leaning forward, he holds out the candy and jerks his chin towards it.

When I make no move to take any and continue to stare at him, he pulls back. “Suit yourself.”

Moment of adrenaline over, I mutter, “I should call the cops.”

His eyes flash, and he shakes his head slowly. “No. You won’t. It’s already taken care of.”

What?

Brows furrowed, I ask, “What do you mean taken care of?”

His eyes search my face a long time before he utters, “Got a friend to come and sort out the problem.”

My blood runs cold.

I swallow hard, then whisper, “Is-is he dead?”

Seeming annoyed, he shoots back, “You care?”

A moment of complete honesty passes through me. “No. When you pulled me up, I wished he was dead.”

Twitch nods and his eyes soften. He seems to like that answer. “Don’t ask, don’t tell, Alexa.”

My eyes widen and I shiver. “You know my name.” A statement.

Throwing more candy into his mouth, he sucks on them and looks at me through narrowed brows.

I know what he’s thinking. I’m thinking the same thing.

Why aren’t you freaking out right now?

Then I remember.

Standing, I head to the kitchen, open the top cabinet, and get out my first aid kit. Bringing it back to the sofa, I reach for his hand, but he pulls away. His eyes darken. “Don’t need to do that.”

“Please, let me help you.”

His eyes flash, and he shakes his head a little as if to clear it. Closing his eyes, he murmurs, “Okay.”

Victory and joy swirl through my body. I’m momentarily elated.

My type of work means I come across a lot of different types of people. I know that everyone is different, but what I’m sure about Twitch is that he’s a sociopath.

Opening the bottle of peroxide, I steady my jittery hand as much as possible and pour a little on some cotton. Reaching for his hand, he watches closely as I pick it up and bring it closer to me, resting it on my knee.

“This smelly stuff stings,” I warn before I dab the cotton on his wound.

He doesn’t flinch or make any sign that he’s in discomfort, but his pupils dilate as I wipe at his raw knuckles. Not liking the idea of him being in pain because of me, I bend at the waist, lean down, and blow lightly on his knuckles.

When he grips my knee tightly, I lift my head to look at him. His jaw set, his eyes hooded, he looks pissed. I whisper, “I think you’re good now.”

His face softens at my hushed tone, and he orders gently, “You need to go to sleep. You’ll be sore in the morning. Take ibuprofen.”

I don’t even get a word in before he stands, grips my upper arm firmly-but-gently, and pulls me up. Wrapping an arm around my waist, he walks me down to my room, lifts the covers of my bed, and helps me in.

I’m so relaxed right now. The ferocity of presence is alarming. I feel protected. And safe. I’m not scared of anything right now.

Laying my head down on my pillow, he pulls the covers up and over me before turning and walking away.

My head begins to pound, and my heart races.

What if you never see him again?

Just as I’m about to call out to him, he stops at the door and turns back. Looking a little unsure of himself, he watches me. I sit up, chest heaving. He searches my face for what seems like the billionth time, then asks, “You need my help sleeping?”