COMMAND

Three

I hated taking out the trash.

It was so upsetting that you have to get up, take the trash, walk out of your warm house and into the cold night. What did I have against taking out the trash? Easy. I didn't want to get up.

It was after midnight. If I didn't take it out now, I would continue to drag it out until my flat started to smell like something had died in it, and my eyes would start to burn. Deciding to go out now wasn't easy. I should be in bed, enjoying my pillow and soft sheets.

Fuck, it was freezing. The night was so dead. Not even a bark of a dog. It was usually like this at night. Silent. A little creepy. After throwing out the trash, I started to head for the doors. Suddenly, someone appeared from the shadows. Grabbing my wrist, he pulled me several feet to the side of the entrance.

I opened my mouth to scream.

"Don't." A single command. Rich and throaty, with a rumble and a hint of danger. Suppressing a shiver, he shifted us, and we were stepping out of the shadows. The streetlight under us flashed me his face, and I sucked in a breath when my eyes followed the structure of his face.

I wanted to scream, but I couldn't. Air was trapped in my throat, and it couldn't escape. A knife could be plunged through me, and I still wouldn't be able to move. He looked like a terrifying wolf as he examined me with sharp, gold eyes. Like a wild beast who had been thrown into the street to hunt. A hard man, cut from a ruthless cloth.

Rogue Slade's face was like concrete as it gave out nothing. If possible, he looked positively dangerous up close. His face was sharp in the angles of his jawline and cheekbones. The eyes that I used to stare at in the magazines were hazel, now seemed as black as night stared back at me, unsettling me to my core. Thickly lashed, they were relentless in their intensity. Pure and genuine panic started to filter in.

"Am I dreaming?" I blurted out. I had to be. There was no reasonable explanation as to why Rogue Slade would be here. This was a sick dream I had conjured up. It wasn't funny. I didn't want him in my dreams. He wasn't allowed in my dreams. I was going to have a long talk with myself when I wake up. Wake up, please.

His eyes narrowed at my words. He felt like the devil we were meant to stay away from. And this started to feel real. It was real. He was here. I opened my mouth to speak again, but I yelped when one of his hands moved to my neck, wrapping around it and choking me. My eyes bulged. I wrapped my fingers around his, desperately trying to claw his hand away so I could breathe, but it was no use. He was twice as strong as me, and his will seemed unbendable.

My eyes were wide. My chest was hammering. Rogue looked me straight in the eye, with chilling determination. With strength. With brutality. I knew then I had fucked up. I had somehow pissed the man, and he was here to kill me.

"I'm sorry if I did something wrong," I spoke each word carefully, in a controlled voice that I could muster. What else was I supposed to do besides begged for my life?

He didn't respond to my plea. Instead, his grip on my throat tightened as if he hated it when I speak. Did the sound of my voice make him angrier?

"Please," I squeezed out in fear. There was no one on the street to help me. If I shouted or called out for help, there would be nothing stopping him from snapping my neck. I took another calming breath. "I'm sorry I looked at you," I whispered. That was what this was about, right? Me looking at him. This must be it. I never knew staring at someone would be the cause of my death. It seemed a little extreme.

His eyes narrowed, and his lips thinned, seeming as though he was grinding his teeth. "Shut up." His eyes were on me, never diverting its attention from my green ones. It was not normal. He wasn't normal. "Where is Hanna?"