“I’ll meet you outside the garden’s pavilion.”
I’m so aggressively pulled out of my thoughts that it takes me a minute to process what she said. “Right.” I clear my throat. “I’ll meet you there. Don’t take long. The food will get cold.”
I turn away from the door, shocked by how easily convinced she was to join me. For a moment, I feel a flicker of something I haven’t felt in a long time—hope, and a sense that I might be able to convince her to stop hating me after all.
16
Braxton
Iadjustmyshirtfor the hundredth time, smoothing out the invisible wrinkles my eyes can’t seem to stop finding.
“Where is she?” I grind out, my eyes pinned to the only door leading into the garden.
“Perhaps she’s taking her time to get ready,” Gravesley offers, his voice sounding hoarse.
“Did you catch a cold?” My nose crinkles. “What’s with the tone in your voice?”
“Just not feeling quite like myself, Your Highness.”
I pause upon hearing his answer. Gravesley has never once gotten sick the entire time we’ve been here. I believe it’s part of the curse. Nothing can come in or go out: animals, people, diseases. Almost as if we’re sanctuaried in a bubble.
My mind ceases its pondering when I see the door leading into the garden creak open. Azalea bounds out, her lavender skirts fisted in her hands, no doubt to keep herself from tripping on the flowing fabric. When she catches sight of me standing under the domed roof of the pavilion, she hastily drops her skirts and slows her steps to a leisurely pace, as if to keep me from noticing howshe’d been rushing. Rushing to get to me. A sense of pride swells in my chest at the realization, but true to her nature, Azalea quickly squanders it.
“Well, if I knew we were dressing so casually, I would have been here earlier,” she huffs, still trying to catch her breath.
I know she’s saying it to get a rise out of me. I’m many things, but sloppy is not one of them, especially when it comes to my appearance. My hair is expertly combed and styled to look tousled without looking messy, my black shirt is pristine and paired with my black leather trousers and boots. I even wore a couple of thick silver rings on my hand to match the silver gleaming in my belt buckle. It isn’t my fanciest outfit, but it’s far from casual. Ignoring her slight at my appearance, I simply respond with, “You look lovely.”
“I’m aware.” She smiles at me, and I can hear my knuckles pop as I clench my fist at my side.
“If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you are trying to rile me up, Wildflower.”
“Do you really need me to accomplish that task?” She looks up at me sweetly, feign innocence morphing her features.
A muscle in my jaw feathers. “Well, I hope you’re hungry,” I quip, knowing full well I ordered the kitchen not to deliver her breakfast this morning.
“Yes, well, I didn’t know when I agreed to this picnic, I somehow also agreed to being starved before it.”
I smile to myself. I had heard a slight commotion in the kitchen when Azalea went down to try and gather some food for herself but was refused.
“How else could I ensure you would actually come?” I match her mawkish smile with my own.
“Clever.”
“You sound surprised.”
“I am. Who knew there was some brain with all that brawn after all.”
I offer her my arm. “You know, that’s dangerously close to a compliment, Azalea.” Sacred Sky I loved saying her name. The feel of each letter as it rolled off my tongue was nothing short of euphoric.
“It’s probably because I’m becoming delirious from the hunger pains.” She shrugs before stepping past me without taking my arm. “Now, let’s get this over with.”
“I would like to escort you there,” I insist, pushing my arm toward her again. Why did she have to make it so damned hard to be a gentleman?
“I’m perfectly capable of walking myself.” She picks up her skirts with an over-exaggerated swish as if she’s trying to give her hands a task to keep from having to grab my arm.
“Take my fucking arm or I’ll make sure you don’t get a scrap of food until dinner,” I growl, my patience past its point.
Her nostrils flare from the livid breath she puffs through them. Running her tongue along her teeth, she drops her skirts before reluctantly linking her arm through mine. Her fingers wrap around my bicep, and it’s pathetic how much that touch does to me. It’s like my entire body hums to life from the slightest bit of contact with her. I can only imagine how it would feel to press my lips to hers, to dig my fingers into her luscious curls, to mold her body to mine as I claim every inch of her.
