Page 37 of Death Rydes Shotgun

“Something happened that caused it to end abruptly. And everything changed.”

Ryder slowly turns his head, his eyes locking onto mine with a fierce, hungry intensity. “What changed, Harmony? What happened?”

I set my jaw, pulling my gaze away from his. “I’m not talking about that.”

The heavy silence returns, thick and suffocating as his gaze crawls over my profile, taking in every line of my face, tracking the rapid flutter of my pulse point in my throat.

A strange mix of defensive anger and intense, humiliating heat pools low in my gut.

I hate how much power his eyes have over me. I hate how he can make me feel completely exposed without ever touching me.

Ryder reaches up, pulling the wet hem of his heavy black hoodie. “We need to get out of these wet clothes and huddle by the fire, or we’re going to freeze.”

I turn my head, giving him a sardonic look. “Are you serious?”

Ryder simply shrugs, completely unbothered by my bite. “You had no problem taking your shirt off for me earlier, but suit yourself.”

In one smooth, fluid motion, he yanks his heavy hoodie over his head and tosses it onto the dry straw nearby.

My breath hitches in my throat.

Underneath, he wears a fitted black tank top that does absolutely nothing to hide the massive physique beneath it.

The dark cotton stretches tight over the heavy slabs of muscle across his chest and abdomen. Beautiful, intricate, artistic tattoos grace the entirety of his upper body—dark, swirling gothic ink, predatory lines, and shadowed art stretching over his shoulders, down his broad biceps, and disappearing beneath his armpits.

My hands ache with a sudden, humiliating desire to reach out and trace every single line of ink.

The need to feel the smooth, burning heat of his skin beneath my fingertips is so strong, I’m damn near choking on it.

How intoxicating would it be to press my palm against his chest and feel the heavy thud of his heart?

Then my eyes catch the details of a telltale struggle, and the heat in my blood instantly turns to ice.

Scattered across both of his tatted, muscular forearms and upper arms are fresh, raw scratches. Red, angry lines cutting through his ink, fresh enough that the edges are still inflamed and tender.

A sharp, unsettling knot forms in my stomach.

Defensive wounds.

I pull my eyes back up to his face, my mistrust snapping back to the absolute forefront of my mind like a steel trap.

He’s a dangerous, unhinged killer.

I’m sitting alone in an abandoned barn with a man who’s already proven he’ll hurt someone over the smallest provocation, and if he gets angry enough, he’s likely to gut a human just like he did with Marcus.

“Why did you push me away after our kiss behind the tractor?” Ryder breaks through my spiraling thoughts.

I stare at the fire, my fingers gripping the hem of my sweater tightly. I fight the urge to play these games, to act tough, to put up the sharp mask I’ve worn all night.

“Because you scare me, Ryder,” I finally admit.

That’s the most honest I’ve been with him all night.

Ryder leans in close, his mouth hovering inches from the side of my face, his warm, smoky breath fanning across my skin.

“But in the best way,” he whispers, his voice laced with a cool, seductive arrogance that makes a violent release of butterflies flutter in my stomach.

Before I can draw another breath, his hands are on me.