(KRYSTAL'S POV)
My hand is still hovering near the light switch. For some reason, I can't bring myself to move. I can't even breathe.
Raffaele Vipera is sitting in my apartment like he paid the rent, one leg crossed over the other on my couch, and a cigarette hanging lazily between his fingers. Smoke curls toward the ceiling in slow ribbons, twisting in the stale air of my apartment.
His eyes are on me. Blue-green, cold, focused, sharp enough to slice through my skin.
For a moment, I honestly think I'm dreaming. That I'll blink and he'll vanish. But the small cut on the bridge of his nose—the one from my heel back at the club—proves otherwise. It's there. A little bruised. A little swollen.
I did that.
And now he's in my fucking apartment.
My mind is screaming "Move! Do something! Say something!"—but all I can do is stare.
