Page 49 of Gatsby's Starlet
If anything, it made it worse.
“That’s not comforting,” I said, forcing the words out, even as my voice tightened at the edges.
“No?” he asked, pushing his chair back with a slow scrape that seemed too loud in the quiet room, the sound dragging across my nerves as he stood and stretched like he had all the time in the world.
Then he started moving. Not fast. Not aggressive. That would’ve been easier. Instead, he circled the table slowly, like he was in no rush at all, like this was entertainment, like I was something he could take his time with, and I tracked himwithout meaning to, my body already reacting, my pulse picking up with every step he took.
“It should,” he said, coming up behind me.
I went still.
Too still.
“You’re in a bad place, sweetheart.”
His hand brushed the back of my chair first, then slid up to my shoulder, light enough it almost wasn’t there, but it was, and that was enough. I jerked forward, out of reach, my chair scraping loudly across the floor as I stood too fast, my heart hammering now, loud and unsteady in my chest. “Don’t touch me,” I snapped, turning to face him, my voice stronger than I felt, because fear didn’t get to win out loud.
He didn’t get angry. Didn’t even look surprised. If anything, he looked more interested.
“Feisty,” he said, like he approved. “I knew you would be.”
“I mean it,” I said, backing up a step, then another, until the table was between us, something solid I could hold onto even if it wouldn’t really protect me. “Stay away from me.”
He leaned forward slightly, bracing his hands on the table, his eyes locked on mine in a way that made it hard to breathe. “Or what?”
I didn’t answer. Couldn’t. And he knew it. That was the worst part.
“You think that weirdo Gatsby’s gonna save you?” he asked, his voice dropping just enough to make the words settle heavy in my chest. “Those boys in that clubhouse don’t have a clue what you’re mixed up in?”
My breath caught, sharp and sudden, and I hated that reaction, hated that he saw it. “Gatsby doesn’t mean anything,” I said, forcing the words out anyway. “I’m just doing what Drago asked.”
Kane laughed under his breath, straightening slowly, like he’d just confirmed something for himself. “Oh, it’s got everything to do with him,” he said. “At least to me. You better keep some boundaries, Evie, or things could get real fucking ugly with how I kill him.”
Then he started moving again. Slow. Deliberate. Closing the distance one step at a time.
I stepped back.
He stepped forward.
Again.
Again.
Until the back of my legs hit the table and I had nowhere else to go, the edge pressing into me, grounding me in the worst possible way.
“Don’t,” I said, but my voice had changed now, the edge dulling into something thinner, something that didn’t sound like a command anymore.
He stopped just in front of me, close enough I could feel the heat of him, his gaze dragging over my face like he was taking his time committing it to memory. “You smell better up close,” he murmured, like it was something he had every right to notice. “I bet you taste so fucking good.”
My stomach rolled and I almost gagged. “Move,” I said, pushing at his chest, needing space, needing air.
And he let me.
That was the part that twisted worse than anything. He let me move him. Took a step back like it was his choice, like he was the one allowing it.
“You’re gonna learn real quick,” he said, his tone shifting just slightly, just enough to make the words land heavier, “that you don’t get to pick sides in this.”
My breath caught before I could stop it. “I already did,” I said, the words slipping out before I could think better of them.
