AYLA
His eyes lowered. "I thought I did. Until I saw you."
What did he mean by that?
He was talking gibberish now. "Me?"
His eyes darkened, the warmth in them gone like balloons punctured with a pin.
"You." He pushed himself away from the diesel drum and stood in front of me.
Using one finger, he brushed a tear from my cheeks. I tried to jerk away at the reaction.
He was sick. Wounded? Yes. But sick.
"At first, I'd thought it was your beauty and your hair that attracted me…" He pulled strands of my hair between two fingers.
"Too bad you dyed it. It took a while, but I did my thing and found out who exactly you were. And whoosh—that explained everything."
So he'd stalked me.
Followed me.
And tried to get close to me.
The thought of it alone made me sick.
"And so, you want me dead?" I asked, the shock evident in my voice.
