Page 28 of Silk and Sirens

Caden held the door open to his car, and I contemplated whether to follow his order or simply turn and walk away. He glared at me with those eyes of ice, his face impossibly calm as he placed his honest-to-god sledgehammer in the boot of his Mercedes. The car was matte black with black trim, and for some reason it just suited him. If a car could suit someone.

“Don’t,” he warned, as if reading my mind. “This will go better if you cooperate.”

Choices, choices.

I decided on not giving him the option to shoot me in the back. Slipping into the passenger seat, I allowed him to close the door behind me. The inside was just as flashy as the outside, and within moments Caden joined me inside the luxurious but small space. Especially considering he was a large man, his shoulders taking up more space than they should have.

Without a single word he shifted into drive, and the car purred beneath me.

I crossed my legs slowly, deliberately, just to see if the shift of fabric and fleeting glimpse of skin would draw his attention. He didn’t so much as twitch. Not that he ever did.

Caden was one of the few men immune to my usual tactics, untouched by flirtation or suggestion. If I hadn’t felt his mouth on mine only hours earlier, I would’ve sworn him incapable of that kind of heat. He wore the iceman persona so effortlessly, but no—that kiss had been anything but cold.

“Sebastian has you wearing these now?” I asked, finding a half skull in the footwell. I lifted it up with a smile, recognising the identical copy of the Beast’s statement mask.

Caden didn’t even so much as look in my direction, so I put it on.

“How do I look?”

The car slowed for a red light, and he finally turned in my direction, something dark flashing in his eyes. But before I could tease him the light turned green, and he faced forward again, jaw set, knuckles pale against the steering wheel.

This silent treatment was becoming tedious.

Unsnapping the mask because it wasn’t the most comfortable, I placed it on the dash just as Caden clicked through the screen to make a call.

“Vous avez un public,” Caden said immediately in what I assumed was French, and I smirked knowing he wanted the language barrier to make me uncomfortable. But in all honesty, I thought, if he was discussing my untimely demise, I’d rather remain in complete ignorance.

Whatever Caden thought this was—control, probably intimidation—I had no intention of rising to the silent threat.

“Ce qui s'est passé?” Sebastian’s voice cut through the line, low and controlled. Before I could greet him Caden shot me a warning glare, so I rolled my eyes in return and kept quiet.

“Notre petite sirène.”

Siren. At last, a word I recognised. I’d chosen the title myself, borrowed from the mythological temptresses who lured men to their deaths, unlike their softer mermaid cousins who were romanticised into something almost innocent. I found it … fitting.

“Est-ce qu’elle est maîtrisée?” Sebastian asked.

“Oui.” Caden’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. “Tu veux que je la fasse taire?”

There was a pause on the other end of the line, and I was increasingly frustrated at the lack of translation. But I’d never show it. Instead, I focused on how his voice deepened when he spoke in French, taking on an almost perfect accent as if he’d spoken it his entire life.

“Si elle devient un problème, elle ne nous laissera pas le choix. Quant à savoir si tu le fais maintenant, je te laisse décider.”

Caden ended the call without another word.

I waited a beat before speaking. “So,” I said lightly, folding my hands in my lap, “am I being executed or is this just our first date?”

“So that’s how you do it,” he said, finally responding to me. “You kill people for information.” He said it as more of a statement than a question.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said, looking out the window to see the streets whizz past. Rule number one was to never admit to your own murders, even to someone who’d watched you do it. “But information is power, does it really matter how I get it?”

“Hmm.” The leather of the steering wheel screeched beneath his grip. It drew my eyes to his hands, to the gold rings adorning his fingers and then the large watch that glistened on his wrist. “So, how come the Mistress of Whispers is doing her own dirty work?”

“Who says a girl can’t get her hands dirty?” I turned back to him, the harsh dashboard light carving shadows along his cheekbones.

“And specifically my father’s business partner?”

“You’re asking a lot of questions for a man who entered a property unlawfully carrying a sledgehammer.”