His exhales grew heavy, curling over her shoulder and pitching her into a breathless frenzy. The more she shoved against him, the tighter his arms constricted, lifting her until her feet kicked air. “What are you fighting? Fear?” His mouth touched her ear, his timbre a silken noose around her neck. “Fear is an imposture, little girl. It doesn't bruise or thrust or bite.” His grip tightened. “Fear is not your Master.”
Oh, holy mother. What was he saying? The terrible dread that occupied her belly bristled with thorns, impaling her with nightmares of public places, crowds, nowhere to hide, loss of motor control. And now her superficial fears embodied a very real, in-the-flesh threat.
He was going to take her, discover all her imperfections, and reject her. Abandon her somewhere away from home. Or kill her.
A furor of tears shot through her eyes and soaked her lashes. She clawed at his arms and stabbed her heels at his shins. If she could refill her lungs, she might be able to muster a scream big enough to wake the neighbors.
But she’d never seen a single person who lived on her street. How judgmental were they? If they came out, would they just stand there and gape? Oh God. “I have nothing you want.” She panted, choked. “I'm nothing. Let me...go.”
“As you wish.” His arms vanished.
The concrete stoop crashed against her knees, and pain ricocheted through her legs. Oh God, maybe he'd only been trying to help her stand? She'd overreacted, made a freak of herself.
She gagged on a sobbing exhale, and her fingers scraped the ground, searching for the package and coming up empty. Another torrent of nausea gripped her body, singeing her insides and spinning the ground beneath her.
She pushed through the disorientation and crawled toward the door as fast as she could. The metal threshold sliced her knees, but she was too numb and dizzy, seconds from fainting. She could feel him behind her, a thick cloud of judgment with eyes scorching her skin, witnessing her shame.
You think they don't know how fucked up you are? Everyone knows. You're a fucking embarrassment.
Oh, if Brent could see her now, dragging her body, snot dripping from her nose. What a fool she was. Maybe the prowler would shoot her and put her out of her misery.
She gripped the doorjamb. Fuck Brent. Fuck all of them. She pulled her legs inside and glanced at the blockhouse of muscle behind her as she swung the door. And froze.
The interior light caught the face within the hood. Her heart constricted, and her hand stopped the door, just a crack.
He hadn't moved from where he'd released her. Hands in his pockets, he regarded her with a lift of one dark eyebrow. His full lips pursed around a toothpick, hollowing his cheeks. A strong jaw and hard gray eyes roughened his model-like prettiness. But the thick scar bisecting his cheek was what stayed her hand, pinning her to the floor and summoning the deepest, most troubled part of her.
The gash curved from the outer crease of his eye to the crook of his mouth. It should've impaired his confident gaze and brutalized the symmetry of his deep-set eyes and chiseled nose. It should've made her look away.
Instead, it demanded tolerance, homage even, and fortified the savagery of his beauty. He was a perfect imperfection.
Her ogling had only lasted a heartbeat. Perhaps, another second drinking in his good looks wouldn't hurt, but as she leaned in, the door swung closed and erased him from view.
The air returned to her lungs. She locked the dead bolt four times and collapsed onto her back.
Who was he? How did he get the scar? What did he want? She replayed the potency of his voice, the strength of his arms, and the flaw in his flawless face. He was fascinating. Though to be fair, she hadn't been outside in two years. A stray dog might've been just as enchanting. Actually, what was more fascinating was that she was thinking about him and not her lost mail.
She sat up, her pulse redoubling. Her mail. Her fucking package. Goddammit, she couldn't go back out there. It was a guaranteed panic attack, one she might not survive. She gripped the middle row of knuckles and exhaled with each crack. If she didn't go back out there, she wouldn't have the dye to finish the leathercraft orders. She wouldn't get paid. Wouldn't be able to stop the water from being shut off.
She released a heavy sigh. She'd made it to the mailbox, albeit ungracefully and shamefully. She could make a few more steps to gather the packages. She rose, exhaustion weighing down her limbs.
God, her silly fears had such incredible power over her. Just a quick sprint right outside, and she'd have what she needed to finish her orders.
With a spike of courage kick-boxing her heart, she placed a trembling hand on the knob—
A fist pounded on the door.
She jumped, rattling her teeth.
“Amber?”
His voice shivered through her, and her breaths burst in and out. Why was he still here? Should she call the cops? Would they force her outside or to the station to make a statement? She faced the door and shouted, “Go away.”
More pounding. “Amber, if you want your mail, you're gonna have to open the door.”