My blood freezes in my veins at the sound of his voice. I wasn't trying to hide, per se. So what did I really expect? I feel sick with guilt, like I've done something terribly wrong.
I turn around, not bothering to hide the cigarette between my fingers. Riot is standing in the doorway of the house, his signature unreadable expression staring back at me.
Slowly, he approaches. His eyes are as dead as a reaper's as he steps forward. I reciprocate with a step back. Another step forward, another step back. That's how it goes until my waist bumps into the wooden railing around the porch.
"Alright, fine. Yeah. I'm a smoker. So what?" I challenge, bracing myself for the worst. Maybe it's the suspense of the dead look on his face that gets to me, or maybe it's the guilt I already feel towards m
