Page 14 of Niccolaio Andretti (The Five Syndicates)
I snort, hardly believing it. “John doesn’t have friends.”
And it’s true. As far as I know, John goes to work and stays at home. That’
s it. And other than that, John’s a mystery. Kind of like his neighbor, except I’m actually tempted to unravel the mystery of John’s neighbor. Not for the first time, I acknowledge that he’d make a wonderful predator. After all, he was able to make me, a frigid ice queen when it comes to wanting men, flirt. And I realized yesterday that that was what I had been doing. I was flirting with him, showing off my knowledge of the law for no other reason than the fact that I’m attracted to him and wanted to impress him.
God, I’m so stupid.
John’s neighbor stalks forward with a predatory grace, each step calculated, methodical, and leisurely, while having the same effect as a swift and ruthless attack would. Though his eyes are on me, he looks vigilant of everything in our surroundings.
Alert.
Aware of everything around us, though somehow most aware of me.
“Maybe I’m his only friend.” He takes a step closer. “Maybe I’m his best friend.” Another step. “Maybe I’m looking out for him.”
“And I’m the threat?” I look down at my petite body pointedly, but I regret it immediately when his eyes trail the same path down my body.
My breathing hitches, and his eyes flare with lust.
And I recognize that look immediately.
I just never thought I’d see it in someone I’m attracted to.
“You look pretty threatening to me,” he says, surprising me.
This man, who has tree trunks for thighs, a chest that spans the distance of the Pacific and arms with crests like hills, thinks I look threatening?
What has this world come to?
“You’re one to talk,” I reply, nodding my head in his direction, at the overwhelming presence that is him.
Surely, he realizes the kind of man he is. The imposing threat his presence alone poses to the world. I would gesture at him, too, but my traitorous hands are shaking from our proximity, so I clench my fists tightly instead and hide the useless things in the deep pockets of my Wilton University Law Review sweater.
I’m distinctly aware of my last name embroidered on the right breast pocket of the sweater. Even though it’s unaccompanied by my first name, the idea that he has even the slightest glimpse into my identity is disconcerting.
Not because of his potential mafia connections, but because any knowledge that isn’t mutually shared between us affords him a sort of power over me that I’d rather I retained. It’s a stupid and childish notion, and I’m probably overthinking things, but can I really be simply imagining this seductive power struggle between us? The way our words are like hands, tugging back and forth on an invisible rope.
I’m telling myself that this is hatred. That hatred is a never ending game of tug-a-war between two people that are better off leaving things alone but lack the maturity to do so. But I don’t particularly see him being immature, and thanks the metaphorical revolving door my sperm and ovary donors had installed in my childhood apartment, I know what true hatred is, and it isn’t this.
This is something else entirely.
“Why are you here?” he asks the same question he asked last time I saw him, and for a split second, I wonder again if he knows that I’m gold digging.
I never said that I was sleeping with John, but it’s not a stretch to assume that a woman sneaking out of a man’s house around midnight is sleeping with said man. And that’s pretty much what just happened, except I left to go get my LSAT study guide and was planning on coming back.
Now? I’m not so sure.
I’m stuck in front of this man, and not because he’s not letting me leave. I’m sure if I tried to leave, he wouldn’t bother to stop me. He wouldn’t care enough to. But I’m stuck in front of him, because I don’t want to leave.
I want to be here.
I want to see where the intense magnetism between us takes us.
And I don’t know why this is happening.
I hate him. From the second I met him, I hated him. Given my body’s traitorous response to his presence, I knew he would be trouble for me; for my future; and most importantly, for Mina. Yet, I’m standing in front of him.
And worse—I want to be here.
