Page 19 of Seduce & Destroy

“It wouldn’t be the first time I see you today.” She returned to focusing on her nails, which annoyed me. I had to feel her eyes on me.

I shrugged and strode to the edge of her bed in two steps. She still hadn’t looked up, so I slowly let my leather jacket fall from my shoulders. I was only wearing a deep maroon tank top underneath, the tops of my lace bra visible. I leaned over to show it off.

That got a glance from her. “You don’t have to do that.”

I blinked, “Do what?”

“Manipulate me. Tempt me. Make me forget. It won’t work.”

My voice grew huskier. “What makes you think I want to tempt you?”

“You wouldn’t be the first.”

That pissed me off. Princess being touched by somebody else? The visual alone made me sick. And for a moment I was too frozen by that thought that I didn’t consider who that could’ve been. So, I guessed. “Was it Neenan?”

“Ew, no.”

“Then who? A man?” That earned me a look and I had my answer confirmed when a sadness seemed to briefly wash over her. “Ah men. Isn’t it always?”

“Not really, you’re trying their tricks all the same.”

“But I’d treat you better.” And God I wanted to. I could satisfy her more than any man could, I knew it for certain. My dedication to the mission seemed to wane anytime I was near her. Get under her to get over her. Point. Blank.

She only rolled her eyes at that, so I reached across the bed and placed my hand on her knee. The spark was there as it was in the training room yesterday morning. I knew she felt it too when a soft redness lightened her cheeks, but her shoulders hung heavy. “Please, I’ve had a long day.”

I changed tact. “Off load on me. Speak your fears out loud and it’ll be cleansing.” I positioned myself at the top of her bed, back against the headboard and my legs spread either side of her, so that she could perfectly slot between them. Not in that way. Not yet.

She looked uncertain. As she reached for the nightstand, it looked like she was about to get up and walk away, away from me, but she grabbed a makeup wipe instead, lifting it to scrub at the grey mask on her face. To my shock and awe, when she disposed of the wipe, she sat down in front of me. Her back to my chest as she slowly reclined. My heart fluttered, but the proximity felt good. This touch was indulgent rather than sexual. It was new.

“You trust me?” I whispered in her ear.

“No.” Smart girl. She responded with a complicated look on her face. I knew she wanted to. I heard of her lonely walks into the forest and the way she stared at joking guardsmen. She wanted to be a part of that. “But let’s pretend.” She continued.

More than anything, exhaustion was written in bold across her features. The marks of a tough week are scattered around her room. Piles of clothing on the floor. The overflow of the bin. The numerous half empty glasses dotted atop the furniture.

I looked around to gauge her style. Dark pastel greens and earthy browns painted the place as if it were a construction of nature itself. The fireplace was understated as the glowing embers released periodic gas, causing a spark. A painted portrait hung above the fireplace; Laney’s subtle smile contrasting her father’s sullen face.

The decor was deeply personal, capturing Laney’s down-to-earth manner and an obvious inspiration from the surrounding hills with those that filled it—a pile of books on her bedside, mostly classics, but some romcoms. If she wouldn’t talk about herself, she could talk about books. Stories were a language everyone spoke.

“You like to read?” I asked.

“My father basically taught me English through Shakespeare and classic literature. Though, the romances are my favourite.”

Of course, they were. On the top of the pile was Troilus and Cressida—the tragic play about love and betrayal. I hadn’t read it, only heard Mama talk about it. She had a collection similar to Laney’s, but much smaller; she lost a lot of books in a fire when she was young. My bedtime stories were a mishmash of what she could remember.

“Do you want love like that?” I said, pointing at the book.

“No.” She looked down. “But it makes me wonder.”

“About how war corrupts promises?”

“About what it would feel like to be in a love so intense that it feels like sanctuary and sacrifice.”

“Like is the love that is worth fighting for also worth dying for?”

“Yeah, but does it matter anyway if both options end in pain?”

Her words made me uneasy; she was entering a realm I’d always been told to avoid. Love wasn’t something we celebrated at home. Instead, we focused on trust and loyalty. There was no doubt I loved my family, but I sometimes questioned whether my parents' exchanged glances were rooted in genuine affection or merely a shared commitment to our family’s legacy. Whether that was love at all.

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