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been well proven that I wasn’t right in the head.
    I sat down on a chair near him and picked up a magazine. I tried to focus on the scalding, cheap coffee in my hand and the gossip magazine in my lap, but my attention and my eyes wandered back to him. Not seeing anything but his fingers, which were curled around the well-worn book, I couldn’t tell how old he was. From his body language and his form, I guessed he was in his early twenties. 
    There was something about him that felt familiar, which was odd. I was pretty certain our paths had never crossed. I would remember meeting him; his presence was not something I’d forget. He didn’t seem to fit in the room. Even though he had to be well over six feet tall, he seemed to take up even more space than just his physical form.  
    He shifted in his seat, making some instinct in me kick in. I jumped up defensively, spilling half my coffee. Every head turned my way—every head except his. He didn’t even flinch. The entire room watched me with curiosity and apprehension while his attention stayed locked on his book. My face flamed as I realized he had just shifted in his seat and was not springing up to attack me. 
    Babbling out a lame excuse, I wiped up the coffee I’d spilled. Eventually, everyone went back to their own business. I sat back down, watching him cautiously through my lashes. It felt similar to being in a cage with a wild animal, which was testing its limits before it would bite me. It was normal to react during sudden movements or a commotion, but he didn’t. He seemed to be making a point of not looking at me, and it aggravated me more than it should have.
    Returning my focus back onto my reading material, I couldn’t stop my eyes from continuously slipping over the top of the magazine. My relentless desire to see his face sent my eyes slinking back to him over and over again. The more I watched him, the more he seemed to stir in his seat. He knew he was being watched, and part of me wanted him to look up and catch me, just so I could see his face. 
    “Look up,” I mumbled. 
    His head shook slightly underneath his hood as if he was saying, “Not a chance girlie.” 
    Chagrin flushed into my cheeks. There was no way he could have heard me. No one could have heard me. I was being silly. Shaking his head had nothing to do with me. It was probably something he was responding to in his book. I still felt flustered, unnerved, and oddly hurt.
    A police officer entered the room and approached the hooded mystery guy. “Okay, you’re free to go, Mr. Dragen. You know the drill. Sign the forms and you can leave.” 
    The officer’s familiarity with the guy should have been a red flag. It was clear he had been here before, probably more than once. But if that didn’t send a warning flag, the clank of metal on metal as the officer leaned down and unlatched his wrist cuffed to the chair, certainly did. Why was he handcuffed to the chair in the public area of the jail? What did he do? This is what they call public safety?
    I noticed several things when he got up. When he stood, his movements were so smooth and quick that I almost didn’t see the transition. Also I had been wrong about his height. He had to be at least six-four, if not taller. The extraordinary strength and confidence that exuded off of him eclipsed everything else in the room.
    He shifted his head further back into his hood, making it impossible to see his face clearly. That, of course, made me want to see him even more. My hands balled into fists; the desire to reach under his hood and lift up his face overwhelmed me. 
    As he passed, he cocked his head enough so I could see a hint of his chin and lips. His lips twisted, curving into a terrifying, malicious smile that I knew somehow was meant for me. A chill crept over me, and I didn’t move until he and the officer disappeared from the room. When he was gone, I sighed and dropped my face into my hands. 
    “Ember?” 
    Mark’s voice