Page 52 of Sweet Ruin

“I can only hope. Anyhow. Nice to meet you, but I’ve got places to be.”

I start to go past him. This time, unlike in the pantry, he’s the one who grabs my wrist.

And unlike Vivian, when I glare at him, he shows no interest in letting go.

“Where are you headed?” he asks, gazing down at me with infinite patience in his eyes.

I shrug. “I don’t know. ‘Away from here’ is the only requirement. I had a vague plan of walking to the water. Mind letting go of me so I can proceed?”

He declines to do so. His long fingers, covered in rings and tattoos, encircle my wrist easily. That single touch is enough to pin me in place.

“It’s twenty-six degrees.”

“Is it?” I say, glancing around at the snow piled up on the sidewalks. “Hadn’t noticed.”

“You have no gloves, no coat, no hat, no scarf.”

“You know,” I say, “for a man who broke into a house tonight, you have a real Mom energy about you.”

“I walked in the front door.”

“So you keep saying. I believe you less and less every time.”

The corner of his mouth goes. It’s not a fully baked smile. More like the raw dough of one.

I squint at him. I fully believe that he hasn’t lied to me tonight. But there’s something I don’t trust about him at all.

Maybe it’s just that he’s too good-looking, too obviously rich. People this easy on the eyes can’t be trusted—just look at Connor or Vivian, for example.

Pretty people are liars. Plain and simple.

“Are you a police officer?” I ask suddenly, not even sure why I care.

“No.”

“A reporter?”

“No.”

“Then you’re the third-worst thing at this party, and the other two are inside.”

“I assure you I’m worse than both,” he promises solemnly.

I shiver. “Look, if you’re out here waiting on my sister, she’s inside throwing a fit. You’ll spot her without any help from me. Men always do.”

His eyes stay locked on me, but a hot flash of rage surges through them. “I don’t want her, and I don’t want anything she’s got.”

I shiver again, this time for a different reason. It’s like he grew an extra six inches in every direction when he spoke like that, in that harsh, feral growl. Taller and broader and closer to me.

Or maybe it’s that the world seemed to shrink around him while he stayed as big as ever.

I dunno. Weird. I might be having an episode.

“I don’t think I caught your name,” I mumble through cold lips.

He arches a brow. “Are you sure you want it?”

“Should I not?” I question. “Is it a bad name? Are you, like, an Igor Igorovich or a Dick Johnson or something?”