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I wanted to run.
But God help me, I wanted him more.
My fingers hovered at the hem of my shirt, torn between escape and surrender.
I backed away—one step, two—throat constricting with panic. I could still do it. I could still get out.
But then.
His head lifted. Slowly. Deliberately.
His eyes—twin shards of something wild and broken—locked on mine through the glass. Stripped of his contacts, they were unnaturally pale, the color bleached out like old photographs left in the sun. There was something unsettling about their lightness, almost ghostly, as if I was staring into the eyes of a predator who’d learned to wear human skin.
And he smiled.
“Going somewhere, little ghost?”
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