And when her eyes finally decided to find me, she took in a deep breath, then approached me like someone approaching a wound; slowly, carefully, afraid of making it bleed.
Fucking cute.
I could feel the question trembling on her lips even before she spoke. Callan would have probably softened for that. Such an idiot.
I kept my eyes on her, uttering no word, letting her uncertainty stretch, letting it wrap around her throat.
Fear had a taste, a taste I was quite fascinated with, addicted to. And hers was currently trickling into the air, warm and metallic, beautifully human.
“Hey,” she said, her voice small as she fiddled with the loose thread of her arm warmer. “I um, I wanted to ask if you were able to get our car fixed. We could start going.”
For a moment too long, I didn’t answer, just watching, swirling the wine in my glass. I loved creating an air of mystery. It would increase the fear until it began to choke like smoke.
“Yes.” Finally, I replied, my tone flat and empty. Precisely the opposite of whatever she was expecting.
“Okay.”
She turned like she couldn’t leave fast enough. But a few steps before reaching the door, she hesitated. I loved that. That little turn of her body, the question forming behind her ribs. The confusion. The ache. The ghost of my brother which was still hovering around her.
I rose to my feet, the smile on my face sharp, wicked, none like my brother’s soft one.
Her brows pulled together. “Did I–did I do something wrong, Callan?” she asked, sadness dancing in her eyes, and my jaw worked in irritation at the name she just called me. “Sorry, I just want to understand why you’re acting so…cold.”
She lifted her gaze and finally looked at me, really looked as if trying to find the crack she had missed, a sign she ignored.
Good girl.
“Maybe,” I murmured, savoring the way her breath caught. “Maybe it’s because you have been talking to the wrong person?”
Her little face went pale. “Sorry?”
God, the fear in those eyes. It slid down my spin like the gentle stroke of a lover’s hand.
I lifted the glass to my lips, taking a slow sip, then my free hand fell into my pocket, the other clasping my wine glass tighter.
With every step closer to her, the panic in her eyes bloomed. “You keep calling me Callan. It’s irritating. I hate when people refer to me by a name that isn’t mine.”
She blinked. Once. Twice. Her face flushed, twisted in confusion. “What are you talking about?”
Of course she didn’t know. Callan protected his little secret like the coward he was. How did he not think a day like this would eventually come? How long was he planning on fooling her?
I almost pitied her. What a naïve, little creature.
“As expected.” I let a soft, mocking chuckle slip out. “He never told you about me.”
I straightened, letting her see the difference–in my posture, my eyes, my smile that had not a sliver of warmth whatsoever.
“Hi,” I pulled my hand from my pocket on reaching her, offering it to her. “The name’s Zaghan. I’ve heard a lot about you, on the other hand.”
Of course she left my hand hanging mid air, confusion, fear and disbelief rolling off her like perfume. A sickly, sweet perfume.
“I’m Callan’s twin brother,” I added like it would change anything. “The one who died.” She took in a sharp breath at my last word, and my smirk deepened.
“I know he has been trying to hide my existence from you,” I continued, my voice taunting. “Probably because you don’t like ghosts.”
Oh, how that little heart broke. I felt it, savoured it, loved it. And for the first time since she walked in, I smiled with genuine pleasure.
“So,” she swallowed, staring at me like her mind was trying to rearrange itself, trying to make sense of the world again. “Where is. W-where is Callan, then?”
