"You are trying to annoy me, aren't you?"
His voice was a low hum against the shell of my ear, so close I felt the warmth of his breath before I heard the words. He had moved without a sound, closing the distance I had thought the table provided. The scent of his cologne—clean, frosty, expensive—wrapped around me, obsessive, smothering the lingering shame in the air.
I flinched, but didn't pull away. My body was frozen, the damp napkin still clutched in my fist.
"This performance," he continued, the whisper intimate and deadly. "The trembling, the tears, the… mess. Did you think it would provoke me? That I would lose my temper and give you something real to fear?"
I looked up at him, my eyes meeting his. "Why are you actually doing all of this? You asked those girls to... to touch me. You killed that man."
"Cam—"
"You caused every bad thing that has ever happened to me. You didn't just find me, you destroyed my life."
