Yeara's eyes flew wide as she felt a firm hand grip her neck. A shiver ran down her spine, and her body stiffened as if carved from marble.
She turned, her skin prickling under the touch, her heart hammering against her ribs. Her gaze locked onto the still gray-eyed stranger.
It was him.
The man.
But… how had he reached here without her noticing? Yeara's mind momentarily forgot the grip around her neck, consumed entirely by his presence.
Her eyes remained fixed on his. His long black hair fell in soft waves to his shoulders, catching the dim light of the room. His shirt bore a faint smear of paint, a curious contrast to the cold precision of his hands that still held her neck—neither tightening nor releasing. He said nothing, yet the lethal intensity in his gaze spoke volumes.
Yeara's heart thudded loudly, echoing in her ears, as she struggled to maintain composure. Her lips pressed together, cheeks burning under his relentless stare.
