Something changed in his eyes, she didn't know quite what, but suddenly the space between them was full of pressure, like a storm front approaching. A dark, leashed violence that made her breathing shorten and her heart race wildly. Terrifying. Exhilarating.
This man was a force of nature and a deep, secret part of her wanted to throw herself into the hurricane.
Little bitch. There she sat, all naked and wrapped only in a blanket. With her goddamn dreadlocks and vivid eyes, thinking she could manipulate him with a glimpse of her body. Thinking she could use sex to play with him. Thinking he was weak enough to fall for it.
Well, aren't you? You were last night.
The thought made him even more furious with her than he was already. And he was pretty fucking furious.
The cold shower he'd had last night had dealt with the hard-on in his jeans, but it hadn't made the slightest bit of difference to the hunger that burned in his blood. He'd had to work himself into exhaustion with the punching bag for hours to stop himself from going over to where she lay on the couch and doing exactly what she'd just accused him of.
Then he'd stormed off to the bedroom to try and get some sleep, but the feel of her skin was on his fingertips and he couldn't get the sound of her sighs out of his head. And it wasn't until he'd taken himself in hand that he'd been able to get a bit of relief.
Even so, he hadn't slept much after that. He could usually operate as normal on little or no sleep, but this morning he'd felt like shit. And when he'd stalked out of the bedroom and into the living room, there she'd been on the couch, still asleep. The blanket had slipped down revealing one smooth shoulder and the curve of her breast, and he'd felt the fucking hunger pour through him like a tide.
It was like she'd flipped a switch on inside him and he had no idea how to turn it off.
But one thing was for sure. For seven years he'd kept himself cold and focused and set on his goal. He wouldn't allow himself to be distracted from it by one little rich girl now, no matter how goddamn sexy she was.
"Listen to me," he murmured, staring down at her. "I could care less about your fucking tits. Yesterday was an aberration and it won't happen again, no matter how often you keep flashing them around."
She'd pressed herself back into the couch, a flicker of what looked like fear crossing her face, and that was good. That was how it should be. He needed her afraid and obedient because he was getting pretty damn sick of her fighting him all the time.
"So here's what we're going to do," he went on, not waiting for a response. "I have a few things I have to do this morning and because of your little performance yesterday, I can't leave you alone. Now, I don't give a shit about whether you wear your filthy, wet clothes or whether you go naked, but unfortunately either of those options will draw attention. And I can't have attention. So we're going to have to get you something else to wear."
Her jaw had gone tight, and behind the fear in her eyes, a spark of determination glowed. "Fine," she said. "Then we'll go out. God knows, I could use some fresh air."
Jesus, even now, the damn woman was refusing to be cowed.
It only added to his fury, though he wasn't even sure why. She was so pretty and delicate, like a china figurine he could crush with one hand. Covered in only a blanket while he was fully clothed. She was vulnerable. She should be trembling with fear. Yet she wasn't.
Why the hell did some part of him, something deep in the recesses of his black heart, like that?
In fact it only made the hunger in him worse. Made him want to rip aside the blanket that covered her so he could see all of her. He was pretty certain she didn't dye her blonde hair, but he very much wanted to see if he was right.
You shouldn't have gotten close to her.
Yeah, that had been a mistake. But backing away now would be to admit that this damn hunger was stronger than he was, and there was fuck-all chance of him doing that.
Driven by some need he didn't really understand, perhaps only the need to test himself, he lifted one hand and took one of her dreadlocks between his fingers. It was much softer than he'd expected, like raw silk. With a certain amount of deliberation, he began to wind it around his hand, staring down at her all the while.
She'd gone completely still, her eyes widening slightly. Watching him like a deer watches a lion stalking toward it. "What are you doing?"
You bastard. What would Marie think of you now?
Marie wouldn't have thought of anything. Marie was dead.
"Like I said, I don't want attention. Which means these"-he tugged on the dreadlocks wrapped around his hand-"are going to have to go."
Violet blinked. "What do you mean these will have to go?"
He stared back, unyielding. "I mean you're going to have to cut them off."
"Are you kidding me?" A green spark of anger flared in her eyes.
"Do I look like I'm kidding? Everyone knows what you look like, princess. Especially with those fucking things on your head."
"So I'll wear a hat!"
"No." He couldn't leave her here by herself, yet having her with him while those very noticeable and distinctive dreadlocks were on her head was absolutely not happening. "I'm not leaving anything to chance this time."
Fury burned in Violet's gaze. "You asshole. It took me years to grow-"
"You only grew them to annoy your goddamn mother so don't start pretending they're holy fucking relics." Slowly he unwound the dread from his hand, ignoring the strange reluctance that went through him as he did so. "You have two choices, princess. Either you cut them yourself or I cut them off for you."
If looks could kill, he'd be carried home in a bucket. "You're a prick."
"So I've heard." He made himself push away from her, and it absolutely wasn't to do with the fact that if he spent another moment bent over her, feeling her warmth and breathing in the very faint scent of sandalwood, he'd rip that blanket away and-
What? Put your hands on her? Fuck her?
Hell no. He wasn't going to end seven years of celibacy with Violet Fitzgerald. He wasn't going to end it at all-at least not until he'd avenged Marie's death. And that wasn't going to happen until Jericho and maybe his whole fucking operation was burned to the ground.
But he wouldn't think beyond that now. Because thinking beyond that opened the door to needs and desires and expectations. And those would kill his determination to do what he had to do stone dead.
Violet sat up, glaring at him. "You can't make me do it."
"You think?"
"You're not going to shoot me, and if you were going to put me down in that basement, I would be there right now." Her chin lifted. "So really, what else have you got left to threaten me with?"
Of course. This was Violet. And she never did what she was told.
Reaching down, Elijah took out the knife he kept in his boot and held it loosely in one hand. "Sounds to me like you want me to give you a haircut."
Her face went pale, but he suspected that was from rage not fear. "You wouldn't dare."
"You're seriously asking me that question?" He lifted the knife, letting the light glitter along its razor-sharp edge. "I wouldn't advise struggling against a man armed with a blade."
Abruptly she pushed herself to her feet. She was inches away from him, the blanket held firmly under her arms, her shoulders bare, golden dreadlocks falling down in a shower around her head. Her eyes were bright with anger, vivid against her pale skin. "You wouldn't hurt me," she said, like she knew it for fact. "You just told me you weren't interested in doing so. Plus you stitched me up last night and cooked me food."
"Don't mistake that for anything but what it is. I want you in one piece for Jericho, that's all." He flipped the knife in his hand, an easy demonstration of skill that he hoped would make her think twice about any more arguments. "Last chance, princess. Are you cutting your hair or am I going to have to tie you up and cut it myself?"
Something in her gaze flared. "I hate you."
"Hate all you want." He stepped closer to her. "I don't give a shit." And it wasn't a lie. He didn't give a shit. The only thing he cared about was taking down the man who had killed Marie. And Violet was the means to that end. That was all.
Yet the fury in her eyes didn't let up and she didn't look away as he reached out for her dreads for the second time, almost as if she was trying to stare him down.
Well, she could try. But if she thought his conscience was going to kick in, she was shit out of luck. He didn't have a conscience. He couldn't afford one.
Taking a bunch of dreadlocks in his fist, Elijah pulled them tight. Her hair must have grown some because there were at least a couple of inches growing out from her scalp. She wouldn't be completely bald at least.