Page 13 of Ghosted

“Alice,” I repeat.

Her brows draw together. “You always repeat people’s names like that?”

“Only when I’m deciding if they fit.”

“And?”

I let my eyes move over her slowly enough that she catches it.

Not sloppy or desperate.

Deliberate.

The silver at her throat catches my eye first, all those crosses tangled together like warnings. For half a second, I picture my hand there instead, not squeezing, not hurting. Just resting. Owning the space.

Then the lace. Black and delicate against skin I want to bruise with my mouth, mark up just enough that she’d feel me later and hate how much she liked remembering it.

Her hair falls over one shoulder, blue-black under the warehouse lights, and I wonder what it would feel like twisted around my fingers. Soft at first. Then tighter. Enough to make her breath catch.

My gaze drops to her mouth.

Big fucking mistake.

Because now I’m thinking about kissing it. Biting it. Taking that smart little almost-smile and ruining it until she forgets every clever answer she was about to give me.

My tongue drags over the cut at the corner of my lip.

Her eyes flick down.

Just for a second.

But I catch it.

I catch the way her fingers tighten around the camera strap too. The way her throat moves when she swallows. The way she looks back up like she’s annoyed I noticed.

Aw, too late, ghost girl.

I saw it.

You can hide behind that camera all you want, but you can’t hide from me.

My tongue drags over the cut at the corner of my lip before I can stop it.

“It fits.”

Her fingers shift around the camera strap, tightening once before she makes herself loosen them. Like she doesn’t want me to see that I got anything out of her.

Too late.

I already did.

She tilts her chin a little, trying to take back the space I’ve been stealing inch by inch. Her eyes drag over me again, slower this time.

“You have a name?” she asks.

“Wraith.”

“That’s not a name.”