Page 23 of Tortured Soul
I was almost certain the guard behind me groaned in annoyance as he walked out.
Arc tilted his head in a sharp nod and said guard left, abandoning me here alone. With Arc.
Last time—the only time—we interacted, we had an audience. It was not a cordial exchange then, so I assumed it could only get worse now.
“Take a seat,” he said, gesturing to the comfortable looking sitting area that I desperately wanted to sleep in the night before.
He reached it in a few strides. My legs were less cooperative.
“Come on, we don’t have all day.”
What was with the men and their obsession with time here?
Once I was comfortably seated, but still ready to pounce if needed, he leaned to the side, his eyes holding mine. My body tensed as I held myself from instinctively reaching for my hair to check for the hundredth time that my ears were hidden, until I saw the little lunch bag he retrieved and my stomach grumbled.
“I believe that’s yours?” he said. I nodded.
He placed it on the table and pushed it toward me.
“Eat. We’ll be going to the Archives afterward.”
I felt like arguing, self-conscious to devour my small portion of leftovers in front of him.
Only until I realized I didn’t care, so I ate it quickly as he went through the documents with a focused frown.
“Does your face ever relax?” I asked after a minute, placing the container back into the bag. He lifted his head then, brows not relaxing. I gestured to his face with my hand. “The constant frowning. Must beexhausting to keep your face so…scrunched up.”
Too many emotions lingered in his eyes. None that I understood.
The smell of cinnamon became thicker. I tried to keep track of the variations in my mind. Mist and embers when Carter was there. Mostly mist with a hint of cinnamon when he handed me my lunch box. Overpowering cinnamon and growing embers right now…
Damn confusing.
“Let’s go over the contract, shall we?” he said, ignoring me. “Then I’ll show you the archives and we can stay out of each other’s hair.”
I wasn’t sure what their problem was.
Carter had been nothing but an asshole from the start and, I admit, I’ve pushed his buttons a little.
And even though he tried, Arc did a poor job hiding his loathing of me. Every time the distance between our shoulders shortened, his nostrils flared and eyes snapped close, his whole body tensing. Apparently, the shower I took this morning might not have been enough and I smelled like a dying rat.
Lovely.
When we rounded a corner to get to the stairs, his knuckles brushed my forearm.Knucklesbecause his hands were fisted by his sides. The contact lasted about point one second, and I nearly coughed in surprise from the sudden spike of cinnamon smell.
Usually, sweet, spicy, and warm scents were associated with Hellrisers. Floral and fresh were more of a Divine smell.
If cinnamon didn’t scream that he was some kind of demon, I would have believed that it spiked when he felt disgusted or appalled by something—me, in that particular case. So more of a Divine trait…
I was still confused when we stopped at the top of the stairs and he pushed open an unlocked door, indicating for me to step inside first.
The entrance was narrow and even though I slid inside from the side, my breast brushed against his dark shirt and his chest rumbled with some kind of growl.
I gritted my teeth, crossing my arms over my chest as he closed the door behind us.
Maybe I was overreacting. Maybe I was misinterpreting things, and he was just busy and annoyed to play tour guide.
I could let it slide. But if he acted like I had the plague one more time…
