Dont Blame Me

Chapter 15

I'm completely immobilized beneath her stare. I can only imagine the look on my face when I see her standing there, waiting for me.
The sconces behind my bed are lit, offering dim lighting. Enough for me to get a clear view of her. She's clad in all black. Leather boots, jeans that wrap tightly around broad thighs, and a matching hoodie that looks a size too small with the way she fills it out.
Still, I can't see much of her face-that damn hood.
My tongue darts out, wetting my dry lips.

"Take off your hood," I say, a slight tremor in my voice. She doesn't.
Nor does she speak.
Anger begins to build beneath the fear.

"You wanted me to come find you, kitty cat. I did. So take off your fucking hood and show me your face," I demand, my voice rising alongside my anger.

A sinful smirk tugs at her lips when she hears her new nickname. She thinks this is a game of cat and mouse. If she wants to debase me with a nickname, it's only fair I return the favor.
Slowly, she reaches up and slides the hood off her head, the knife glinting as if to mock me. I have my own knife, too.
Any triumph I felt over my little jab dissipates like butter in a hot skillet. And all the fear I've been feeling triples. Her face is... unlike anything I've seen. But that's the thing-I have seen her before. The mismatched eyes give her away.
In the bookstore, I only saw portions of her face. At the time, she seemed mildly attractive. But now that I see those pieces as a whole, she's devastating.

Her right eye darker than the midnight sky, and the other the exact opposite. Her left eye is so bleached of color, it's nearly white. The scar starting from the middle of her forehead, slashing straight down through her white eye and to the middle of her cheek, is something I haven't been able to forget since I saw her in the bookstore.
Despite the ugly scar, it only serves to heighten her utter beauty. A jawline so sharp, she could cut diamonds with it. A straight, aristocratic nose. Full lips. And short black hair, just long enough to run your hands through.

This is wrong. So wrong.
I shouldn't be attracted to a stalker.

Her presence is so overwhelming, it feels as if she's ten feet tall with a shadow crawling up the ceiling, slithering toward me. This room feels tiny with her in it. I feel tiny with her in it.
She takes a step toward me, a hint of that smirk remaining on her face-just the slightest curl in her lips.
I take a step back. Finally, my instincts aren't completely jacked sideways, and I make my first smart move of the night.

"Cat got your tongue, little mouse?"

Briefly, I close my eyes. Her voice washes over me, leaving goosebumps in its wake. The sound is as deep as her black eye.
I swallow again, nearly choking on the very muscle. It feels like my tongue has swollen to double its size.

"What do you want from me?" I choke out.

She prowls towards me. My spine tightens, and despite the gallons of fear pumping through my heart valves, I stay still. When she gets close enough, I'll stab her.
Aim for the throat, Rosie.
My eyes lock with her, and all thought escapes me. She presses the entirety of her body against mine. No shame. No shyness. No, let me buy you a drink first before I press my whole body into you.
The boldness of it has me nearly biting my tongue in surprise.
It takes several seconds for my body to unlock. Before I can think about what I'm doing, I swing my knife towards her, but meet resistance when I attempt to lift it.

I look down in confusion, just to see her bare hand wrapped around the blade. Blood pools in her hand, a small trail heading straight towards my own.
I gasp, my eyes widening and snapping back to her. Not a single iota of pain shines in her eyes. Not even a glimmer.
She jerks on the blade once, ripping it from my weak hold, blindly tossing it behind her. The knife clatters loudly against something before toppling to the floor, the sound reverberating in the otherwise quiet room. Nothing but my heavy panting breaks the static of silence surrounding us. Her presence is a vortex, steadily depleting the oxygen from the room- and even from my brain.
Because I cannot think straight with her body so close to mine. With the fear coiled tightly around me, the force of it turning my body to stone. I'm useless. Powerless. The inability to fight rages in my head, my survival instincts tell me to just move, yet my body refuses to.
And then her bloody hand is wrapping around the back of my neck and bringing my body flush with hers once more. I cringe at the feel of her life's essence dripping from her hand. The blood feels like menacing fingers crawling down my spine, staining my skin as if to mark me.
To my horror, she lifts her other hand-the one still gripping a much more wicked-looking knife than mine-and brings the tip of the blade to the underside of my chin.
She applies enough pressure to force my chin up further, the metal biting into my skin. The slightest curl to her lips stalls the breath in my lungs. The act speaks of something daunting. Something condemning.