Page 62 of Darkest Deception

‘I thought British people are used to it’… Does that mean he isn’t from the UK? Where is he from?

“I am. It’s just really heavy, and it’s getting late,” I say, still worried about how I will get home.

Both of our phones ping at the same time. It’s a warning about the thunderstorm that is approaching fast, recommending us to stay where we are for the next four hours.

“This—”

“A storm?” Helia interrupts.

“No, I need to be home.”

I can’t stay here. Mum will demand that I get home no matter the weather.

I stand up, ready to head out the door, but a firm grip on my shoulder stops me. I suck in a sharp breath and spin to face Helia. His emerald eyes look deep into my own, demanding me to stay in one place.

“You’re not going anywhere, Emerald. Not in this weather.” His voice is low, twisting my stomach.

“Are you worried about me, Mr Nashwood?” I tease, finding humour in the fact that he even said it.

He frowns, his brows dropping. “Of course I am. If I lose you, who will I torment? I am too lazy to hire someone else.”

I step out of his hold. “Too bad. Get someone else to hire them for you, but I am leaving.” Turning around, I open the door, only for it to be slammed shut with a hand.

“Helia, I need to go.” I go to grab the handle, but he captures my hand in his. I bite my lip to stop my gasp.

His big hand consumes my own, its warmth wrapping me tightly. Goosebumps erupt all over my body at his touch. Those same veiny hands with those long fingers held my face, kissing me, and—

I shut my eyes, erasing the thought, and will my heart to calm down.

It was a mistake.

A mistake.

A mistake that can’t happen again. And neither can that kiss.

I should want to kill him. He took my company. He tormented me. He hates me, and I hate him.

Then why? Why is my heart beating erratically inside of me?

Is it in fear of what he may do to me in his office?

Or… is it in anticipation of what other mistakes we might make?

“Let me go,” I argue.

“First name basis with your boss? That is not professional at all,” he murmurs in my ear, the velvety voice inciting an irregular heartbeat inside of me.

“What about you? Emerald, of all names? Very unique…” I can guess he uses it because I wear that colour often.

“It was my favourite colour, but then you stole it.”

I turn around to face him. He narrows his eyes, but he looks at peace, relaxed. His breaths fall in soft puffs while his eyes watch me with heightened intensity.

“Stole it? Are you seriously arguing with me about a colour?”

He shrugs, leaning closer.

His cologne, that strong musk-and-gardenia scent, fills me to the brim. It’s addictive. It’s an unwelcome obsession.

---