“You heard me.” He utilizes that iron tone again and doesn’t move an inch until the two men finally leave the section. Then he sits back and crooks one finger at me.

“Come here.”

I don’t move. There’s something about being trapped; a deer in the headlights. When every muscle contracts, paralyzing you. It’s impossible to react logically. Or think. At least until something more alarming snaps you from the daze.

Like him literally snapping his fingers.

Thwack!

I flinch, but my body obeys my commands again. I cross my arms and square my stance, making myself as small a target as possible. I should run—but I can’t. My eyes won’t leave my bag.

My journal. My conscience. It’s the one possession I can’t bear to give up.

“G-Give it back.”

“She speaks.” Amusement flickers through his angular features, making me jump. His eyes are more expressive than most people’s. Like a predator’s: it’s almost too easy to tell what he’s thinking—but you’re only ever seeing half of the tale. Hunger, yes, but its presence alone is no predictor as to when he’ll finally pounce.

“Hop this way, bunny.” Again, he crooks his finger, but there’s a swiftness to the motion thatwasn’t there before. A command lurking in the deliberate twitch of his knuckle.

“Come here.”