Page 32 of The Prince of Hidden Shadows
“It’s more comfortable here than on the sofa, huh?” He pats the side of the bed. Is this a feeble excuse to lead me where he wants me?
His mixed signals heighten my sour mood, yet I’m distraught by his half-naked proximity.
“What are you waiting for?”
Willing myself to chill the fuck out, I perch on the mattress, keeping my distance from him. Hands pressed into my thighs, jaw set, and chest taut, I contain my emotions by zeroing in on his peculiar—if not outdated or dubious—taste in fashion. And yet, he oddly pulls it off.
Top Gunflickers on the TV screen. With subdued lights and a perfect soundtrack, it resembles an extended music video. He mocks me when I announce I’ve never seen this classic.
I grumble at him but can’t stay mad. “I might have missed this masterpiece, but the blatant testosterone overload and homoerotic vibes have a way of working on me.”
“I knew you’d like it.” He winks and scoots closer, scooping a second pillow to lean against before settling in.
I stiffen, his proximity stressing me out.
Dinner and a movie at his place have all the hallmarks of a date. My chest constricts, fingers clench, and the simmering tension that’s been coiled under the surface takes hold. It isn’t how we roll. Is he that oblivious or deliberately testing me? Either way, my annoyance strikes back with a vengeance.
I snap my head towards him, the question bursting out before I can rein it in. “Zagreus, why am I here?”
He doesn’t answer at first—keeps watching the screen as if I haven’t spoken. I’m about to repeat myself when he hits pause and meets my eyes with an unsettling sense of calm.
“To save you,” he says, tone certain. “From yourself.”
Riiight…
I snort. “Try again.”
He props the pillows behind him, expression daring me to look away, while mine flares with confusion and frustration. “I’m serious. This’ll be a team effort. One of my friends is going to forge the piece. I told you at the café before your friend interrupted us, all I need you to do is to steal the real one as you planned, but deliver it to me, not your… clients.”
I blink, caught off guard. “You want me to dowhat?” My hand rubs my face in a feeble attempt to escape his stare. “You weren’t kidding the other day, huh?”
“Nope! Follow the plan and take the first step to putting an end to this nonsense.”
I shoot to my feet fast enough to jostle the bed. “What nonsense?” Heat flares throughout my skin, but not of the rightkind. “You mean walk out on my job? My money? My life?” My voice rises with each question, and I pace the room. “Is that it, Zagreus? Are you out of your goddamn mind?”
“Chillax, T.” He tosses a popcorn kernel in the air and catches it in his mouth, carefree, while the implications of his suggestion churn inside me—and that nickname hits me mid-chew. Since when does he call me that? “You’re wound tighter than C.J. Parker’s red swimsuit.”
What? My temper gets the best of me, and I don’t ask if it’s another one of his 80s references. Fuming, I hiss, “You set this whole night up just to pitch a heist? You do realize Isigneda contract. Walking away isn’t just career suicide—it’s suicide. Period!”
He quirks a brow, unbothered. “That’s why I saidwe’dcome up with a plan. Have a little faith, will you? I’ve been around long enough to set things in motion without a hitch. Your client won’t figure it out. You need to stop edging towards a darker path.”
“Long enough, huh?” I scoff, my stride quick, my leg striking the bed’s corner and flinching from the jolt. “Don’t tell me what I need. Don’t plan on my behalf. And don’t psychoanalyze me. God or not, you’re not calling the shots.” My lips tremble. “Are you naive enough to think that working at the café for a few weeks changed me into someone who wants out? Ilovewhat I do. I’m good at it. No strings. No guilt. Just pure adrenaline and pride in my work ethic. End of story.”
Zagreus opens his mouth, pauses, and shuts it, eyes fixed on mine, daring me to run out of excuses.
The back of my neck is so stiff, it aches. I stop wearing a hole in the rug and point at him. “I can’t believe you tricked me.You lured me here like this was about us, not some high and mighty intervention.” He wants pop culture references? I’ll give him some. “Why are you roping me into someOcean’s Elevennonsense? Here’s a plot twist: I workalone. No crew. No flashy schemes. No soft-focus ‘we’re in this together’ crap. There’s no eleven in my performance, not even two. I don’t get off on teamwork or risk. I get off on perfect execution and being the best. I get off on a job well done. And I sure as hell don’t need anyone trying to derail that. Don’t expect an apology for not embracing your life that’s straight out of aBeetlejuicemovie. I’m supposed to throw away a job I committed to—forwhat?—so I can keep my soul squeaky clean?”
He shrugs. “You said it, not me.”
“No,” I growl, my thunderous glare boring into his soft one. “This isyouridea of redemption, not mine. And even if I wanted out, I wouldn’t need your divine-freakin’-intervention.”
He doesn’t flinch and tosses another piece of popcorn into his mouth. “That’s where you’re wrong. Your business is my business?—”
Nope. Just no!
My breath falters, rage mixing with something deeper—rawer. “Fuck you!” I cross my arms over my chest. “You think you know me? That you can waltz into my life and play savior with your passé references?”
He winces at my low-blow for a split second, then grins, slow and maddening. “I’m not playing anything. And for the record, you were the one who crashed into my world.” His voice softens. “But Idowant to keep you out of… Let’s call it Hell.”
