Page 47 of Even Robots Die
Yeah, yeah, I know, like I said, weird.
“What are you thinking about?” Brice asks.
“Nothing.”
“Liar,” he counters. “When you’re thinking too hard, your nose bunches up and your eyebrows try to meet. It’s the same look you have when you’re working in the lab.”
“My eyebrows don’t try to meet,” I sputter, trying to hold onto the only thing that was relatively safe—and could be meant as an attack—in these sentences, because knowing Brice has observed me enough in the short period I’ve been in the castle to know this about me is unnerving.
28
Brice
“They do,” I tell her. “It makes you look like you’re constipated.”
That last part has the desired effect, and Florentine’s face turns a deep red color that I want to feel under my lips. I’m sure it would be hot under my tongue.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
You’re just getting horny,that same hateful voice whispers to me.
It’s not wrong, though. I’ve been half hard ever since we left the castle, and it has nothing to do with the dress. It’s just her. Or maybe it’s the fact my own body decided to wake up only for her.
It makes me feel like a teenager all over again, even if those years are long gone.
Is this going to be my new normal?
Me catching a glimpse or a whiff of her and my body reacting like she’s the perfect aphrodisiac?
It’s going to be hell.
It’s going to be the sweetest hell.
I shouldn’t complain, though. If my body is waking up, it means maybe, just maybe, everything else will wake up again. I’ve got theamusement at making her mad already, after all. It’s more than I had before she came into my life.
And it’s been basically a week since that happened.
Water hits my face and I’m thrown out of my thoughts.
Oh, right, I told her she looked constipated.
I might have deserved that.
I wipe my face with the napkin that was on the table and lick my lips before talking.
“And how old are you if you still feel the need to throw a tantrum?” I ask with what I’ve come to know is a taunting smirk for her.
Her fists tighten near the silverware she’s not using.
“You’re an asshole,” she bites back.
“You’ve said so on more than one occasion,” I answer her as I keep cutting my pizza. She might think pizza is best eaten with fingers instead of silverware, but I’m not about to follow her there. I’m not a savage after all.
I'm not telling her either that most of the times I’ve heard her call me that, was when she was mumbling to herself and I was hidden in my bat form in the same room as her. I have the distinct feeling that she wouldn’t take my sneaking in her quarters while she’s unaware so well. “It still doesn’t answer my question.”
I don't know why I keep pushing, because surely, I won't like the answer.
Or maybe it’s because I know I won't like the answer that I ask.
