Savage Hearts (Queens & Monsters #3)(32)

Through gritted teeth, he says, “There’s no panic button.”

“Guess we’ll find out, won’t we?”

He makes another growling sound. This one comes from deep within his chest. It’s low, rumbling, and dangerous, like the warning of a bear.

He’s infuriated by my attitude. But he also isn’t strangling me, so I think the sass might be a good distraction.

“How’d you get in here, anyway? This place is a fortress.”

“Do you always talk this much when you’re about to die?”

“Yes. I find pre-death conversation relaxing. Answer the question.”

His hand tightening around my throat, he snarls, “You’re not in charge here, little bird.”

I really wish he didn’t smell so good. Or look so good. His attractiveness is unnerving. I gaze up into his blazing green eyes, wondering how it’s possible my sister and I have such terrible taste in men.

It’s a good thing we never met Ted Bundy. Charismatic, violent killers are apparently our thing.

“I realize I’m not in charge, but I’m curious. You seem to be able to walk through walls.”

“Hence the nickname.”

“What does the name Hangman have to do with walking through walls?”

He frowns down at me. “My nickname’s Ghost.”

“That’s not what I heard.”

He pauses to think. His hand is still wrapped around my throat, but its grip has slackened slightly. “Hangman?”

“Yeah. I figured you must be good with a noose.”

“No. I have no idea how to tie that kind of knot.”

“Oh.”

“But I did once strangle a man with his own intestines.”

Feeling queasy, I say, “How creative.”

“Thank you. I thought so.”

We stare at each other. I become acutely aware of his bulk hovering over me, of the heat of his skin burning through his clothing, of the feel of his rough hand on my neck.

“Ten seconds are up. Where are your bodyguards?”

When I don’t respond, he leans close to my ear and says, “Who’s the liar now?”

His voice is low and husky, and his wild, woodsy scent is in my nose. An involuntary shudder runs through me. I close my eyes and moisten my lips, desperate to pull myself together.

“You’re right. There’s no panic button. But I’ll still haunt you forever if you kill me.”

“People don’t come back from the grave.”

“You have no idea how stubborn I am.”

He turns his head, and his beard tickles my cheek. Looking into my eyes, he presses his thumb against the throbbing pulse in my throat then doesn’t do anything for several seconds.

I think he’s counting my heartbeats.

He could also be deciding where to bury my body.

“Why aren’t you afraid of me?”

“I am afraid of you.”

He examines my expression. “Not very much.”

“Does that insult your ego?”

He makes a motion with his head that’s not a yes or a no, but more like a maybe.

“If it will keep you from killing me, I’ll act very scared. I’ll cry and everything.”

He’s starting to look frustrated. “That’s exactly what I’m talking about.”

“I can’t help it. I really did believe you when you said I wasn’t in danger from you.” I think for a beat. “I mean, mostly. You are pretty scary. And very large. And Spider almost shit himself when I told him I saw you in the bookstore.”

“Spider’s the blond bodyguard who was with you?”

“Yeah. Oh—can I ask you a favor? Will you please not hurt him? Kieran, either. He’s the other bodyguard. The bigger one. They’re both really nice.”

Malek stares at me in disbelief.

“Sorry. Is that asking too much? It’s just that I’d never get over it if they got hurt because of me. They’re only trying to do their jobs.”

After a moment, he says angrily, “You know who I am. You know what I do. Correct?”

“Yes. I’ve been filled in on the particulars.”

“And you’re lying there with my hand around your neck asking me not to hurt your bodyguards.”

He says it like my sanity is in question.

“I know it’s maybe a little unorthodox.”

“No,” he says flatly.

“Please?”

He growls, “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“There’s no need to get testy.”

“Testy?”

“I’m just saying. You don’t have to get all mad about it.”

Furious again, he glares at me, grinding his jaw and probably calculating how much pressure it will take to snap the brittle bird bones in my neck.

Before he does, I say, “I also want to thank you for the rose you left me. That was really nice. I’ve never had a man bring me flowers before. I know it was only the one, and also you thought I was a captive prostitute at the time, but still. It was thoughtful. So thank you.”

He stares at me with an expression somewhere between confusion and amazement, with a healthy dose of disgust on the side.