3. Mira

3

MIRA

"Get your fucking hands off of her before I break them, asshole."

The sneering voice is like a lightning bolt, so sudden and alien that both me and the creep freeze in our tracks. Creepazoid's hand hovers in the space between us, no more than an inch away from wrapping itself around my throat.

I look over the creep's shoulder to see the douche bag pretty boy from a few minutes ago. But he's not pretty anymore—he's straight-up terrifying . There's a darkness clouding his eyes and his jaw is clenched viciously tight.

I screamed a moment ago, but there's not enough air in my lungs to do it again. So I just watch, dumbfounded, as Pretty Boy lays a hand on Creep's shoulder and wrenches him back hard enough to send him flying into the far wall.

His elbow catches the sink as he careens past me, kicking on the hot water. Steam begins to fill the air as Pretty Boy descends on the bastard.

He throws a sickening punch into the man's gut and then an uppercut into his chin. Blood speckles the tile walls. The Creep groans, his eyes fluttering back in their sockets, which I can see because the hood has now fallen away.

Without it, he just looks like a person.

Not a monster.

Not a nightmare.

Not my past coming to squeeze the life out of my throat.

He's just a man, begging for something that sounds a lot like mercy.

But Pretty Boy has no mercy to give.

He unloads another trio of punches in quick succession. It's brutal, but it all happens so fast that I don't have time to react until he's raising his fist to lay down yet more justice.

Only then do I lunge forward to snare his bicep.

He's built like Mt. Freaking Rushmore, his arms as hard as granite. "Stop," I plead. "It's enough. He's done."

Pretty Boy looks at me, then at The Creep, then at me again. Finally, he sighs and lowers his fist. "He doesn't deserve your kindness," he growls.

I don't know what to say to that, so I say nothing.

Pretty Boy snares The Creep by an ankle and drags him into the hallway. Then he closes the door and locks it once more.

But unlike a minute ago, I don't feel like I'm in horrible danger. Well, not quite the same kind of danger, at least. My heart is hammering at warp speed against my ribs and every sense is heightened, but it's almost thrilling.

The steam keeps filling the room, fogging the mirror and the air between us. Pretty Boy glowers. Breathes. His fists flex open and closed, open and closed.

At last, he exhales and the tension pulsing through him seems to recede somewhat. "Are you okay?"

I swallow. His voice is raspy with what I assume is bloodlust. It's weirdly attractive. "Yeah. Fine. He didn't touch me."

"He should never have even gotten close."

"Yeah," I say with an embarrassed wince. "That's my fault. I wasn't looking over my shoulder like normal, so I didn't see him?—"

I falter and stop when Pretty Boy suddenly steps closer. His hand rises up to cup my cheek as his thumb passes over my brow. "You're bleeding," he whispers.

I raise my own hand to touch it and it comes away with the tiniest spot of blood. I must've scratched myself in the midst of the mayhem or something.

"I'm fine," I insist. "It's nothing."

But Pretty Boy reaches out to his side, runs a fingertip under the scalding water, and then brings it back to rub the nick in my forehead. The water sizzles for a moment, but his touch sizzles afterward in a whole different kind of way.

I gulp. It's hotter in here than it was a moment ago, and I don't think it has anything to do with the water.

I glance down and realize with sudden mortification that I'd completely forgotten about my state of dress. Or, rather, my state of un dress.

I stifle a yelp and clap my hands over my body. Pretty Boy lets his gaze slowly track downward to see what's got me all hot and bothered. His eyes burn, but of all the times I've ever seen lust on a man's face, this one is somehow different.

He wants me—that much is obvious. Even though I avoid men like the plague these days, I've witnessed enough desire to recognize it now.

He wants me and he wants me bad—but he won't lay a finger on me unless I ask for it. That much is obvious, too. Don't ask me how I know it because I have no freaking clue, but I'm as sure about it as I've ever been about anything in my whole cursed life. It's like he's some wild animal, a lion or a panther, and he wants to feast, but I'm holding the leash. I have all the power.

"The macchiato," I explain weakly.

Pretty Boy chuckles. "I ought to go buy that customer a lifetime supply."

I laugh, too. "I'd rather you give him a lifetime supply of what you just gave that creep."

The smile fades from his face as quickly as it came. I can't decide if he's more beautiful when he's smiling or when he's smoldering. Both are butterfly-inducing. "I would have come sooner if I'd heard," he rumbles.

"It's okay. Really. I was gonna… figure it out."

"Mm." He's unconvinced.

His face is so close—when did that happen? Did he move toward me or did I move toward him? Those eyes are truly insanely blue. They go on forever and ever. Sky-deep, ocean-deep.

I could do it, if I wanted to. Kiss him, I mean. I have the leash. I have the power. Hell, I'm already mostly naked, and it'd be such an easy thing to let myself have one nice thing for once in my life.

So yeah, I could kiss him and maybe do more than that and it'd be okay. Maybe it would even heal me, in some small way.

Or maybe not.

Maybe I'd just infect him with the same sick stuff that's been ruining my world for as long as I can remember. Maybe it'd be like an anti-fairy tale, where the princess kisses the prince and turns him back into a frog. I could drag him down into the depths with me, into a life of furtively checking shadows and counting steps to exits and using biting sarcasm to keep everyone who might be good for me at arm's length, because God forbid I dare to love someone again. I've seen how that ends: in blood-soaked hands and screams that no one hears.

In the end, the answer is obvious. I shouldn't kiss him. I shouldn't even try.

Instead, I do the only thing I can do:

I shove him backwards, scoop up my clothes, and run.