Chapter 6

"...I swear, you've got the wrong person." Camila's voice was shaking, almost about to crack as she tried to hold back her panic. The cold barrel of the gun grazing her skin made her shiver uncontrollably. And with the guy standing so close, his dangerous, dark aura was suffocating. Seriously, who pulls a gun out like it's no big deal? Was he some gang member or what? She'd heard Meridia wasn't exactly the safest place, with shootings popping off left and right-but still, she never thought she'd actually run into one herself. She was only twenty, hadn't even finished college yet-her life was just getting started. She didn't want to die here, not like this! Prescott fixed his deep, unreadable eyes on her. Hearing the tremble in her voice, he narrowed his gaze slightly. So, this audacious little woman did know how to be scared. He thought she wasn't afraid of anything. "If you're scared, then behave yourself and answer my questions," he said flatly. Even as he spoke, his hand didn't stop. The gun's barrel slowly traced across her smooth skin, making her flinch over and over. He leaned in closer, his handsome face exuding an unsettling calm. There wasn't any lust in his eyes-just a kind of cold amusement and indifferent cruelty. What a jerk! Camila was infuriated by his intrusive move, but with a freaking gun pointed at her, she had no choice but to swallow her anger. She looked down, trying her best not to meet his gaze. His devil-may-care grin was driving her nuts; one more second looking at it and she might just deck him out of sheer rage. "You ask," she muttered, voice dull. "I'll tell you what I know." Prescott slid the gun out from beneath her collar, tilted it upward, and lifted her chin with the barrel. His half-lidded eyes locked onto hers-eyes wide and trembling like a startled deer. Her eyes were large and impossibly clear, like spring water after a summer rain-dark, luminous, and strikingly defined. Her lashes were long, thick, and curled just right, the kind that seemed almost too perfect to be real. And right now, they were trembling-delicately, helplessly-making her look even more fragile and heartbreakingly innocent. Prescott paused-for a second, completely thrown off. His eyes stayed fixed on hers, caught in something he couldn't quite pull away from. Too similar. If he didn't know for sure that Nina Quinn was living happily beside Alexander Blackwell, he'd almost believe those eyes had been transplanted straight from her. But when you really looked, there were obvious differences. Nina's eyes had always held nothing but wariness and hatred when she looked at him. In the end, she despised him. But now, in front of him, this pair of eyes was filled with fear-yes-but not hate. No sharp resistance, no loathing. Just those trembling lashes brushing softly like feathers against something deep in his chest, making his long-frozen heart shudder unexpectedly. Prescott's gaze darkened. Maybe... this woman showing up was fate's twisted way of giving him something back. Just when his body was hitting a breaking point, when he was desperate for a child to carry on his life, she appeared-these eyes so hauntingly familiar. Camila felt her scalp prickle under his stare, unease crawling under her skin. He seriously had her confused with someone else. Once was weird enough, but twice? Staring like this? She must really remind him of someone important. No, no time for pointless thoughts. Get your head together, she warned herself. If she wanted to live, this was it. He was distracted-now or never. Her hands were slick with sweat from pure nerves. This was her one shot, and if she screwed it up, it wouldn't just be a bad day-it'd be the last. And she did it. Faster than he could react, she yanked the gun from his hand. The cold metal was in her grip before he'd even blinked. She pointed it at him, heart thundering. "Don't move. Hands up." It was her first time holding a gun, and anyone saying they wouldn't be scared was lying. She tried to keep steady, but her hand was trembling like crazy, finger twitching dangerously near the trigger. Prescott's face went even darker. That towering frame of his brought in an invisible, suffocating air pressure. The tiny elevator felt like it had dropped ten degrees, every breath thick with tension. He stepped toward her, eyes like a storm brewing. "I'm not exactly known for my patience," he said coldly. "And you, lady, you're poking the bear one too many times. That never ends well."