Frost narrows his eyes at me, channeling all types of sinister and chilling energy my way.
“You don’t listen very well, do you?” he says, advancing towards me with the duffel bag and handcuffs in his hands.
It’s not a question. It’s not even really a statement. It has ‘warning’ written all over it. In capital fucking letters.
I gulp against the massive lump of anxiety that keeps resurfacing in my throat, failing to swallow it down. My breathing becomes more and more shallow the closer he gets. He never once takes his eyes off me, as if they’re a pair of lasers programmed to stay on their designated target—and unfortunately, in this case, that would be little old me.
I move to push the chair back in panic, a wave of adrenaline prepping my body to either run screaming or claw at his gorgeous, sinister face. What I’m not prepared for, however, is a third option; that with the rush of hormones spiking my blood, I don’t do either of those things.
I don’t flee.
I don’t fight.