Page 25 of Promise of Destruction
He licks his lips, and to everyone else it probably comes across as an odd habit. But I can tell that I’m playing his game, and he loves it.
“No.” Declan laughs. “I suppose you’re right. I would, however, ask that you try and get better rest in the future. I need you sharp, Miss Palmer.”
I’m not indulging him this time. It would be a fool’s errand. I simply force that smile again and try to pretend I’m invested in every word that falls from his lips the way my colleagues are.
The difference is, I’m not interested inanythingthat falls from his tongue. I know better than they do. I poked a hornet’s nest by running the article on him, and now Declan is fixated on me. The damage is done—all I can do now is wait for him to slip up, to give me something to use against him.
If Declan wants me sharp, I’ll give him all my jagged edges.
seventeen
Declan
I’vealwaysbeenamasochist, but this is a fresh hell that I’ve invented for myself. Working feet away from Soren, breathing her in, pretending that I’m not here for her alone. It’s a torture unlike any I’ve ever inflicted upon myself.
I don’t know what it is about her that has me so captivated.
If she was a little bolder, more assertive, she could be an expert manipulator. Already there isn’t anything I wouldn’t do for her—to get closer to her, to get under her skin, to be inside of her. I ache to hear my name tear from her throat, to taste her, to close my fingers around her delicate neck, maybe even dig my nails into the soft flesh there until her blood drips around them.
It’s far easier to pretend that she doesn’t exist when we’re in the room with others, even though she is literally all that I can think of. It’s why our staff meeting meanders, why I keep everyone to discuss my expectations, why I have them all spill a secret under the guise of a fun ‘getting to know each other’ game.
I listen to everything they have to say, feigning interest in the ramblings as everyone launches into random, tedious details about themselves. I manage to engage, to act like I’m fascinated,but each person my attention shifts to only gets half of me. Once I move onto the next, I forget everything they’ve just said. If I didn’t need to maintain appearances, I’d have fired the rest of them or demanded they work remotely so that there was no need to pretend to care about every one of these people.
It’s hard to pretend like I want to get to know them when all I want to do is drown in her.
By the time we roll around to Soren, she is fidgeting, clearly uncomfortable. She’s adorable in her frustration… pink cheeks, downcast eyes, but there’s one fatal flaw—the way her teeth bite into her bottom lip sends a bolt of anger through me.
That’s a nasty habit.
I’ll have to break it before I break her.
“Miss Palmer.” I smile magnanimously at her. “Tell us something about yourself.”
Her face turns red as every eye in the room swivels to her, their faces full of expectation. “I…” She closes her mouth and focuses on her hands, swirling her nail absently over her ring finger. “I’m a dancer.” She pauses, realizing that’s not quite right. “Was, I mean.”
When she looks up, someone’s face must give away what they’re all thinking because she gasps in horror and the rouge on her cheeks deepens, spreading across her face like wine spilled on a canvas. “I mean, I was aballerina. I danced when I was young—I traveled the country putting on the Nutcracker until…” She swallows, like she’s thinking better of this confession, “Until we settled down here.”
Somehow, I’m not surprised that she’s a product of ballet. She’s tiny, petite and fragile but also strong and fierce.
I saw Black Swan… ballerinas have a ruthless side, too.
“Care to show us something?” Someone teases, stealing my attention from Soren. That’s when I realize I’ve let this meeting go on a bit too long. They’re getting restless.
The person who spoke is Christopher or Christian or something equally forgettable. I turn to him, making it clear with a single glance that he didn’t just mis-step—he full-on stumbled with that one. Fucking idiot probably writes political opinions and has a podcast in his spare time where he laments on one misogynistic topic after another.
“I think that’s all for today.” I force a smile for the room and then direct my attention toward Chris or Kip, or whatever the fuck his name is. “If you’d all like to finish out your jobs from the comfort of your homes, you may do so. Not you,” I add before the washed-up ex-quarterback can push himself to standing.
Confusion fleets across his face a minute, but when I give him a simple command—stay—like I’d give a dog, his face sours. He knows what’s coming. But he’s not the only one I don’t want slinking away.
“Miss Palmer?” I say, glancing up from the notebook in my hands. She hesitates but turns and manages a smile like she doesn’t want to feed me to the fish.
“Yes?”
“Please wait for me to wrap up in here before you take your leave. I have to get you that contract.”
Her eyes narrow and she seems to think about saying something, but her gaze darts to her co-worker and she pushes it aside… whateveritis.
“Okay.”
