Killion leans down, his face so close to mine that every instinct I have is screaming for me to run, to shove him away, to do something—anything. But I don't. I can't. His thumb brushes the corner of my lips, so deliberate, so infuriatingly calculated, that I freeze. My breath snags in my throat, refusing to cooperate.
His eyes—his sharp, burning, impossible eyes—lock onto mine, unrelenting. And then I notice it. Again.
The color of his irises.
Red. A deep, dark crimson, like blood swirling in ink. It's not a trick of the light. Not some illusion crafted by shadows or smoke. No, this is not deliberate. This is other.
And the worst part? It only happens when he's with me.
Fashion, I said.
"What... what's wrong with your eyes?" I manage to choke out, my voice barely above a whisper. I hate how weak I sound, how small. I hate that he's made me feel this way.