Page 18 of Their Arrangement
Watching me.
He didn’t move.
Didn’t speak.
Didn’t blink.
His arms were folded across his chest. His sleeves rolled to his elbows. A silver watch glinted under the recessed lights.
His expression didn’t change.
He looked carved from stone.
Colder than steel.
Colder than this building.
And his eyes?—
God.
His eyes didn’t hate me.
They didn’t pity me.
They didn’t burn.
They didn’t even flicker.
They were empty.
And that was worse.
Because it wasn’t rage that made your skin crawl.
It was indifference.
Sharpened to a blade.
And pointed right at me.
I shifted in my seat, the chair groaning beneath me like it had grown tired of my presence. The sound echoed louder than it should’ve, swallowed by the stillness of a floor too quiet and too cruel.
My skirt caught beneath my thigh, the fabric twisting wrong, pinching skin. My legs pressed together tightly, ankles crossed, thighs locked as if that could make me smaller—less visible. Less… judged.
But Wolfe didn’t look away.
He hadn’t blinked.
He hadn’t moved.
He just stood there, a sentinel in dark clothes and darker thoughts, half-shadowed by the railing. Watching. Waiting.
I couldn’t look away either.
Because there was something in the way he looked at me. Not lust. Not disgust.
Worse.
