Page 12 of Widow's Walk

“Pity,” I say smoothly. As if completely unaffected. Then I lean in as much as his hold on me will allow. “Because it would’ve been fucking wild.”

I nip at his jawline, and his hand flexes around my neck. Then he lets go and takes a step back. Refusing to take the bait I’m offering him to on a silver fucking platter.

Unruffled, I hop down from the desk with lazy grace and saunter to the door. Leaving just as calming as I did crashing in.

He thinks he won. Let him.

The next one is mine.

Chapter five

Blackwell

My patience is wearing paper-thin as I glance at my watch for the second time, waiting in the foyer for Sinclair.

It’s the night of our engagement party. An obligation her family insisted on hosting at a venue closer to us. I doubt it’ll remain a celebration by the end of the night. Not with Sinclair at my side. She might end up with my hands around her throat, squeezing the life out of her, by the time the last toast is made.

The intolerable fucking vamp.

I sigh and take a breath, preparing myself to go and fetch her. But just as I place one foot on the first stair, she appears at the top, looking like the angel of death, ready to descend back into the depths of Hell where she came from. And with the way she’s been making my blood burn and my head pound, it feels like I’m already there. In constant hell, living and breathing it.

By the time I realize I’ve gone still, she’s already halfway down the stairs. My eyes rake over the lace hugging her mostprominent curves, the teasing slit that reveals her pale hip and opposite thigh.

The contrast of her pale skin under my calloused hands has my fists stretching at my sides to refrain from grabbing her as soon as she’s within arm’s reach.

I told her lies. Fed her venomous words about how little I desired her for the sole purpose of sparking a reaction. But I’ve wanted her since I had her pinned beneath me on her bed, snarling like a feral cat. Her skin, as if untouched by the sun. A scent that is overpowering in the most exotic way. It’s all maddening, and she knows it.

She stops one step above me, our eyes level. Her soulful gaze unreadable beneath shadowed makeup, and her body boldly close to mine. As if challenging me.

My eyes jump up to her hair, delicately tossed into something elegant with only a few pieces astray. “Purple,” I grunt in disapproval.

Her plush lips curl into a vicious yet brilliant smile. “I was bored.”

Purple, blonde, indigo. I’ve seen it all since she was a teenager. Another act of rebellion and a ‘fuck you’ to the world.

“Couldn’t have waited until after tonight?” I mutter and head for the doors.

“Why?” she practically chirps as she catches up with me to walk at my side. “Wanted my hair to be perfect for tonight.”

I take another soothing breath, steeling myself for what’s to come.

We ride in silence, save for the hum of the tires and the occasional glance I steal in her direction. She stares out the window, aloof and distant, like she’s already escaped. She looks poised. Elegant. Almost serene. A far cry from the chaos she brings with her.

She’s a goddamn chameleon. A savage and a society girl stitched in one. Combat boots, dripping in venom. Then she’s a poised debutante draped in pearls. It’s unnerving how well she transforms, wearing both skins flawlessly. And somehow never losing that sharp edge underneath.

I’m so caught up watching her, trying to decipher which version I have of her tonight, that I nearly let it slip my mind. I reach into my jacket and pull out the small velvet box. “I almost forgot,” I mutter.

Her eyes drift over, a tiny smile tugging at her lips. “What is it?”

“Your ring.” I pop it open and keep my eyes on her face. Watching for something. A flicker of surprise. A twitch of genuine emotion. The slightest reaction. Anything.

She tilts her head, and her smile grows into something languid and sly. “Hmm,” she hums, plucking the ring from the box and sliding it right on without hesitation. She holds it under the cabin light, examining the way it catches. “Cute,” she says casually, flashing me a grin. The small diamonds in her teeth gleaming at me like a threat. The golden hoop barely peeking out from under her lip as if mocking me.

The one word is like a gut-punch.

Then she turns away like it’s nothing. Like I didn’t just put a goddamn engagement ring on her finger. A ring I spent too much time designing. Put entirely too much thought into, apparently. All for her to call itcute, drop her hand, and turn her head to look out the window like I’m not even here.

Does she even like it?

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