I take his arm. His touch is electric, a jolt that travels straight through the fabric of my dress, up my arm, and into my chest. His muscles are hard beneath my hand. He smells of expensive cologne and something uniquely, dangerously him.
As we walk down the hallway his hand covers mine, his thumb stroking the back of my hand in a gesture that looks, to any outside observer, like casual affection. To me, it feels like a brand, a chain.
I am his girlfriend. The game is still going, and I am losing.
Twenty Six
Kinsley
The restaurant is the kind of place I’ve only ever seen in movies. It’s all dark wood, low lighting, and hushed, important-sounding conversations. The clinking of silverware against porcelain is a soft, melodic counterpoint to the quiet hum of the city outside. Every woman in here is draped in silk and jewels, every man in a tailored suit. And then there’s me, feeling like a fraud in my navy blue dress, my hand still resting awkwardly on the arm of the most dangerous man I’ve ever met.
He navigates the restaurant with an easy, innate confidence, as if he owns the place. The maître d' greets him by name, a deferential smile on his face. “Mr. Monroe, your usual table is ready.”
Mr. Monroe.The name sounds so foreign, so adult. So powerful.
He leads me to a secluded booth in the corner, offering a panoramic view of the glittering city skyline. He slides in opposite me, the leather of the booth sighing under his weight. The table feels like a vast, empty battlefield between us.
A waiter appears instantly, pouring water into our glasses. West doesn't even look at the menu. “We'll start with the calamari,” he says, his voice a low, confident rumble. “And a bottle of the '09 Barolo.” He looks at me, a faint, almost imperceptible smirk playing on his lips. “Unless you'd prefer something else?”
He’s testing me. He’s putting me on the spot, expecting me to be intimidated, to defer to his judgment. The defiant part of me, the part that refuses to be broken entirely, rears its head.
“Actually,” I say, my voice surprisingly steady, “I'd prefer the Sauvignon Blanc.”
West’s smirk widens, a flicker of genuine amusement in his eyes. He looks at the waiter. “You heard the lady. A bottle of your best Sauvignon Blanc, and the calamari.”
The waiter nods and disappears. The silence that follows is thick, suffocating. I stare out at the city lights, at the endless stream of cars moving like blood cells through the veins of the city. I can feel his eyes on me, sharp and assessing.
“So,” I say, turning my gaze back to him, forcing myself to meet his eyes. “What's the story? How did we meet?”
He leans back, swirling the water in his glass. “We met in class. You were brilliant, of course, a bit of a challenge. I was intrigued. We started talking, and one thing led to another. A classic,academic romance.” He says the words with a straight face, but his eyes are dancing with a dark, mocking light.
“And how long have we been 'dating'?” I ask, the word feeling like a foreign object in my mouth.
“A few weeks,” he replies smoothly. “Long enough for it to be serious, not so long that it's suspicious.”
“And the TA-student thing? You said it could be a scandal.”
“It could be,” he agrees. “But a secret, passionate affair is far more scandalous than a serious, committed relationship between two consenting adults. We're not hiding. We're just… discreet.” He takes a sip of water, his eyes never leaving mine. “And now, for your part.”
“My part?”
“You need to look at me like you don't hate me,” he says, his voice dropping to a low, intimate murmur. “You need to look at me like you did last night, when you were wearing my jersey, when my hands were in your hair, when you were kissing me back.”
My cheeks burn. The memory, so vivid, so raw, sends a fresh wave of shame and fury through me. “That was a mistake,” I hiss.
“Was it?” he counters, his voice a soft, dangerous caress. “Or was it the first time you were honest with yourself?”
The waiter returns with the wine, and the interruption is a welcome reprieve. He pours me a glass, the pale liquid shimmering in the low light. I take a sip, the cool, crisp taste a welcome contrast to the fire in my cheeks.
The calamari arrives, and we eat in a tense, charged silence. I focus on the food, on the mechanics of lifting the fork to my mouth, of chewing, of swallowing. But I am acutely, painfully aware of him. The way his eyes follow my every move, the way he seems to take up all the air in the room.
“So,” he says, breaking the silence, his voice casual, almost conversational. “You're at the top of the nursing program. What's the toughest class you're in right now? The one that's actually a challenge.”
The question catches me off guard. It’s so… normal, so unlike him. “Why do you care?”
“Because I'm your boyfriend,” he says, the word sending a jolt through me. “And I'm interested in the things you're passionate about.”
I hesitate, then, against my better judgment, I start to talk. “It's an advanced pathophysiology seminar. We're dissecting a case study on autoimmune hemolytic anemia, specifically how certain cephalosporin antibiotics can induce a Type II hypersensitivity reaction.” The words come easily, the passion for my work a familiar, comforting current.
