Page 108 of Nocturne

But right now, I am downright scared to call him Zagan. I have next to no clue why. I seemed to be full of hot air just this morning. Going toe-to-toe with the man, kicking all my self-preservation out the window.

When he stays rooted to his spot, refusing to acknowledge my presence, I take another step forward. If not for the minuscule change of his back muscles flexing as his body goes rigid, I would have thought he didn’t hear me. But that is impossible. I don’t think he is a man who misses anything, let alone me barging into his office, panting like a tired dog.

“Um, is it a bad time? Do you want me to come sometime later?”

I ask one thing and do the other. If I want to leave, why am I moving forward? If the prospect of being alone with him in this dimly lit spacious office is scaring the living daylights out of me, then why am I closing the distance between us to see his face? My mind and body are in complete contradiction when this man is involved.

I step on the raised platform that hosts his large table in the center, the wall behind it made of bookcase and an open space to its left, where he stands, gazing down at the city. I put a distance that could fit two Zagans between us as I go to stand beside himand look down. Vehicles are running below us, the lights shine under the dark sky, resembling the twinkling stars on a dark blanket.

I try to understand what it feels like to look down at the city one owned. But the beautiful city holds no appeal when he stands beside me, and despite myself, I turn my head sideways to glance at his side profile. His scarred side of the face shines under the ceiling light while the other half is hidden by the shadows, painting him in a darker and rugged shade. The jagged scar moves when a muscle in his jaw ticks, and before I register what I am doing, I move closer, and my hands shoot up to trace its outline.

My index finger is mere inches away from his face when his head snaps towards me, which has me gasping and jumping back a few steps after looking at the hostility in his eyes. Okay, he is touchy about scars. Noted.

“Sorry,” I squeak and bite my lower lip in tension.

Anything he could have said would be better than him taking a threatening step towards me.

I try to move away, but the look in his eyes warns me not to do so. Somehow, he is different now—than he was this morning. All the times I met him before, there wasn’t the bitterness or bubbling anger that hit me in waves like it does now. Sure, he was his surly and broody self, but not this unhinged anger.

Why?

When he stands two paces from me, I turn to look up at him. Those pools of greys shine under the ambient orange light, casting a glow that makes him look similar to the devil. He remains silent, and I expect nothing less from him. This man hasan unhealthy aversion towards communication that is testing my saintly patience. Like every time, the silence makes me restless and pressures me to be the first one to break it.

“Hi.”

He stays quiet.

Really? After all the dirty things he whispered into my ear, left me all bothered and red in my classroom, he cannot muster a single greeting?

I struggle to think about the way to bring up the topic. Sure, being straightforward is always an option, but won’t it seem rude? He would think I only came here to see him because I needed something.

You do need something!

The annoying voice hisses, and I silence it. I don’t need foreign voices quipping inside my mind when I am already struggling to join words together to form coherent sentences with him here.

“How was your day? Was it…” What is the polite way to ask if he encountered any murder attempts or not? “…eventful?” I finish with a cringy smile.

My words go deaf as he continues looking at me with those dark eyes, refusing to talk. No matter how many times he looks at me, I just cannot get used to the intensity in those eyes. Not when my body sings without him even moving a muscle.

“Um…had your supper?”

Supper? Bloody supper?

Who the hell do you think you are?

A maid in waiting for a medieval princess?

“Dinner. I meant dinner.” I correct, already feeling my cheeks warm in embarrassment.

I blow out a breath when he refuses to talk again, giving up on making him converse.

For now.

“Really? You won’t talk? Why? Upped your quota of sentences this morning?”

I am going to regret it tomorrow when I look back on this conversation.

“A fucking imbalance.” I hear him murmur to himself as he takes a step forward.

---