She runs her tongue along her plump bottom lip as she digests my words. I ache to pull that lip between my teeth. To start there before tasting every inch of her smooth, golden skin.
Say yes.I plead in my head, waiting to hear her verdict on my offer. If I can give her leeway in learning more, I can control the narrative of what she learns, all the while having an opportunity for us to get closer. For the first time in a long time, I feel the slightest glimmer of hope stirring in my gut.
With a final huff, she leans back in her chair and crosses her arms over her chest. “Deal,” she concedes. “Can we start immediately?”
“Is that one of your three questions?” I taunt, bringing my water to my lips and taking a slow methodical sip.
“Have you ever been in love?”
I practically choke. Her sickly sweet smile lets me know that this reaction was exactly what she was hoping to see.
“Once.” I provide no further information, hoping her curiosity will bend her will from wasting another question on this topic.
“What happened to her?”
My tongue runs over my suddenly incredibly dry lips before I answer. “She died.” My voice is strained, as my mind drifts back to that awful day. Azalea falters upon hearing my answer.
“Is that what made you the way you are?”
I study her, looking for any sign of pity so I can snuff it out, but I’m content to find that there is none.
“And how am I?”
“An asshole,” she answers without hesitation, and I can’t stop the snort that leaves me.
After thinking on it for a moment, I nod. “Yes.”
“Do you think she’d hate the person you’ve become?”
I can’t tell if this sort of rapid-fire questioning is to try and trick me into realizing I already answered my three questions, but it doesn’t work. I don’t have to answer. I know that, and yet I find my mouth pushing out a response.
“I know she would.”
Azalea doesn’t ask me any more questions. In fact, for the rest of dinner, she doesn’t say much at all. We both become lost in our own thoughts until I hear her chair scrape against the floor.
“I’m finished,” she announces. “Thank you for dinner.” I’m so startled by the civility in her tone and actions that I have to physically keep myself from gaping at her. “I’m going to retire to my bedroom now. And that is not an invitation,” she hastily adds her last statement, giving me a pointed glare.
“Goodnight,” I reply. My momentary state of shock keeps me from coming up with a better response.
Once the door shuts behind her, I feel the corners of my mouth tilt up in the smallest of smiles. We’ve just started a whole new game, and she has no idea that I’ve already won.
12
Azalea
Iturnoverforwhat feels like the thousandth time in my bed. My head and my heart are warring with each other, and it’s making sleep practically impossible.
Sitting up, I groan and drop my head in my hands. The sun is beginning to shine across the castle grounds, splashing the vegetation in soft orange hues, and confirming that I did, in fact, have a very sleepless night.
“He’s a cruel, cruel monster, Azalea,” I whisper to myself as I rub my tired eyes.
When he told me the woman he loved died, my stupid heart couldn’t help but crack a little for him. The mere thought of losing Phillip permanently feels crushing to me, and I can’t promise who I would become on the other side of an experience like that. But as equally as I feel a sense of sorrow for Braxton, I’m filled with an unbendable fury that he would pull me away from my love when he’s experienced what it feels like to have that torn away from him. I would think that a person who has had the love of their life ripped away from them wouldn’t do that to someone else.
Then again, it’s a stretch calling Braxton a person. He’s more of a varmint. A brute. The bane of my existence.
So why can’t I help but feel some form of sympathy toward him? I mentally scold myself. Even worse than the sympathy is the unwanted guilt accompanying it — the slightest sliver of feeling in the wrong that I have to tamper down. I remind myself that I wouldn’t have to use or trick him if he hadn’t cursed and imprisoned me to begin with.
As I run my hand over my face, I notice the sunlight glinting off of something sitting on my desk. Focusing my eyes, I see the usual vase of forget-me-nots stationed there. My brows pull together when I note how early it is, meaning Braxton must get these picked and delivered first thing every morning.
