Page 28 of Carnival
“Is that your second and third question?’’
My jaw clenches, teeth clattering together. James is finding this entire situation hilarious, and although he’s trying not to show it, I can tell that a glimmer of amusement is there, mocking me.
“No,’’ I mumble, averting my eyes from him. For a while, it’s silent, except for the sounds of our breathing and my heartbeat. Somehow, the room feels smaller, more suffocating, the tensionpressing against my chest. Slowly, my eyes flicker back to James, only to find him already staring at me intently.
There’s something behind the smoldering stare, a hint of doubt and uncertainty. He masks well, hiding the emotions with ease. He’s used to this, I can tell. He’s not the one to openly show his emotions unless they’re bordering on rage and fury, and it doesn’t take a lot to set him off.
“You’re overthinking it, hellion,’’ he mumbles, voice raspy and low. Tingles spread through my skin, and I try focusing on his voice instead of the complex emotions that squirm inside me, though his voice seems to be enough to invoke a chain reaction. My heart flips, my stomach twists, and a shiver runs down my body, the sensations unstoppable.
“Then,’’ I pause, figuring out what to ask him next. The question slips through my lips before I can think about it, and in some ways, it’s better like that. The more I overthink, the less certain I am of the questions I want to ask him. “What happened in their house that made me… not remember a single thing?”
It’s like I summoned the devil himself.
James’ eyes darken a shade, pupils dilating slightly. His body tenses, shoulders go rigid, and he stares at me, unblinking, unmoving. The tension in the air thickens, making it difficult to breathe. An eerie feeling creeps up my neck, the small hairs standing up, the anticipation of his answer slowly killing me on the inside.
His jaw unclenches, and he takes a deep breath, though the intensity of his gaze doesn’t subside. In fact, it intensifies with each passing second, and I’m close to passing out. The air getsknocked out of my lungs, and I’m impatiently waiting for the answer.
It’s like I can hear the smallest details, my senses sharpened. His throat bobs, Adam's apple moving as he swallows, the sound reaching my ears. His thick eyelashes flutter with each time he closes his eyes, my own unable to move from him. It’s like a magnetic pull, and I’m not strong enough to resist it.
“Veto,’’ he says.
I’m broken out of the trance, blinking away the thoughts. “Excuse me?”
“You’re excused.’’
A scoff of disbelief falls from my lips, brows raising to my hairline. He breaks eye contact first, looking at the wall and not meeting my gaze again. Anger bubbles inside me, threatening to jump to the surface. My hands tighten the grip on the blanket, and I’m momentarily shocked. What the fuck is wrong with this man?
“Answer the question.’’
“No,’’ he scoffs, almost as if offended by the demand in my tone. “I vetoed.’’
“It doesn’t work like that.’’
“It works the way I say it fucking works. My game, my rules.’’
I’m one second away from slapping the shit out of him, but I try to regain my composure and, with a deep breath, try to think of happy thoughts, because the ones that are running through my head are far darker than I’d like them to be.
“I don’t want to play your games, James.’’
“You have two questions left.’’
The pride in me jumps out, and the decision is made in a split second. Maybe, a few hours, days, or even years down the road I’ll regret it, but right now, all I can focus on is his inability to cooperate, and I’m no longer interested in anything he has to say, given that the biggest question of my youth is something he can answer, yet refuses.
“No questions.’’
He lifts a brow, clearly displeased. “Are you sure? You won’t get another chance.’’
“Positive,’’ I grit out.
I can practically see cogs starting to turn in his head, a moment of shock passing between us. He’s silent, calculating, and figuring out his next move. However, this is the first time I can tell what he is thinking.
He’s pissed.
Oh, how pretty anger looks on him.
His brows are scrunched together, and I can tell that he didn’t expect I’d back down on this. And by the looks of it, he doesn’t like being outsmarted. If he’s expecting me to remember what happened during the time I spent in foster care, it won’t happen. I’ve been in therapy for a long time, and not once did I remember anything. Not the people who I was with, where I was, or for how long, let alone details of their personalities, names, and such. It’s been completely blocked out of my head.
“Fine, then,’’ he responds, voice low and filled with irritation. “Just don’t expect I’ll be answering any of your questions afterward.’’
