I don't know what nonsense she spouted to the Midnight to get this far, but whatever it is, it's enough to drag her onto my orbit like a storm I didn't ask for. And now, it's too late to shake her off.
It's not just the sweet, wrong scent of her blood that's clawed its way under my skin. It's her. Everything about her—calm when she shouldn't be, bold when most people would shrink. The way her cerulean eyes meet mine like she's daring me to see something she's not ready to give. She's forcing my hand, even if she doesn't know it yet. If she's going to make me… like this—distracted, suspicious, fascinated—then I'm going to figure out exactly who, or what, she really is.
It hits me, then, that I'm staring at her. Not just looking—staring. Like some lowlife with nothing better to do than get lost in the sight of a woman who, by all appearances, should be unremarkable. She's not.
