Page 11 of Vermilion Desire

“She saw Braxton Berkshire.” I keep an eye on his reaction, and it’s immediate as his face hardens with a scowl, the streetlights flashing at the shadows of the anger in his eyes.

“Why were you looking at him?” he questions, and it’s not the nicest way to ask a question.

I take no offense. He’s angry, and he’s trying to control his emotions. If he truly answers, he can easily break my phone with one swipe of his hand. I don’t want to poke the irritated bear, but I’m somewhat interested in the case that he’s working on.

I have no clue where this curiosity came from, but it’s here now, and it has no intention of leaving until I can find the truth myself.

“Why do you think I looked him up?” I inquire back. I’m not afraid to stand up to Mr. Wolf even though he looks utterly terrifying with that icy glare.

He clenches his jaw, and it ticked strongly. The veins on his arms bulge from how hard he’s gripping the steering wheel.

Mr. Wolf finds something in him to anchor down the wrath with a pinched expression. He breathes, chest rising and lowering to mimic a countdown in my head. It stops at seven, an odd number for him to realize, and I don’t think too much into it.

Mr. Wolf doesn’t follow the norm.

“I’m sorry, baby. I didn’t mean to accuse you of anything.”

His sincere apology and that kicked puppy look are adorable, but I was never mad at him. He doesn’t need to apologize for being angry as he has the right to be angry because Berkshire’s crime had left the victim’s family in a world of shambles.

They are still in the grieving stage, so Cal and Mr. Wolf are angry for them.

“It’s fine, Mr. Wolf. I was just curious if you must know,” I clarify, and just as his body relaxes, it tenses again.

“Why are you curious?” he asks as if it’s not the biggest criminal case right now.

The crime is still new, and all the wounds are raw. With protests from civilians accusing the police of protecting a murderer to them demanding Berkshire to pay for what he did to that poor woman, the tension in the city is up in flames.

“He’s an interesting character,” I murmur, fishing out my phone to check the time. Mr. Wolf never fixes his car’s clock because he says that he has an accurate way to tell the time.

I had jokingly asked if he uses a sundial, and he didn’t answer. To this day, it remains a mystery.

“He isn’t,” he grumbles.

I press my lips together. Is that a hint of jealousy? Mr. Wolf is one hundred percent better than that rich pianist. The big bad wolf in stories causes chaos and hurts people, but Mr. Wolf helps anyone who calls out to him, and he will put his life on the line for those he loves.

Braxton Berkshire is a coward that hides behind the façade of perfection made with refined hands of professionals that shape his public appearance.

He proudly claims that he donates to charity and helps out those who are in need, but not one media source can find any evidence to support that he is the one who did all the good deeds that he claimed he did.

“Something about him stands out to me.” I tap my lips as I recall the information I have briefly looked up.

A subtle growl breaks the quiet car; he tries to suppress it before it’s too late. “I thought only rare diseases fascinate you.”

“I wouldn’t say Berkshire fascinates me,” I correct. “I can’t put my finger on it, but he looks funny to me. A tickle in my funny bone and I can’t scratch it until I know more.”

A big hand warmly closes around mine on my lap, his thick fingers rubbing my smaller ones in a comforting gesture that has me smiling. I love his hands. They’re big and protective when he touches me as if he’s brushing off the evil that wants to cling onto me.

“You’re an odd girl,” he notes with a chuckle. “I don’t want you to go near that case, baby. You’ll get hurt. And we don’t know how far Berkshire’s influence goes.”

“Since the case is stressing you out lately,” I say as a strong gust of wind falls through the open windows. “I’m going to make you breakfast.”

Talking about the Berkshire family upsets him, and I don’t want the time for him to unwind to have anything to do with work. I hate seeing him self-destruct and have tunnel vision, but his motivation needs to stay burning to get the smug pianist that still goes on talk shows to claim his innocence.

“I promise it’ll be better than Uncle Cal’s microwaved eggs.”

Mr. Wolf groans weakly as if he had remembered something unpleasant. “That animal.”

I merely giggle and let the silence follow us home for the night.

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