Page 90 of Madness & Mercy
I let my gaze drag over him, slowly. I linger on the tie, the way it cuts clean down the center of his chest. The way the fabric hugs his hips. His throat flexes under my stare.
“Much.”
I walk toward the door without another word, and he follows.
He’s tense beside me as we head down the hall. The guards posted along the corridors barely look up.
Halfway to the dining room, he finally mutters, “Why are we even doing this?”
I smirk.
“You’ll see.”
“This is bullshit.”
“And yet you keep following.”
His laugh is bitter. “Because you don’t leave me much choice.”
“No,” I agree, letting my hand brush the small of his back for just a second too long. “But you neverreallytry to run either, do you?”
He doesn’t answer. But he doesn’t pull away.
When we reach the dining room, the table’s already set—dim lighting, heavy silverware, red wine breathing in a crystal decanter. Two seats. Candlelight.
He pauses at the threshold. “Nico, what thefuckis this?”
I lean in, close enough for him to feel my breath against his jaw.
“Adate,”I murmur. “Or an interrogation. Depends on how the night goes.”
He stares at me, stunned. Then finally speaks.
“You’re sick.”
I smile, pulling out his chair for him like a gentleman. And when he doesn’t move, I arch a brow.
“Sit,cagniolo.”
His eye twitches, but he sits.
And I sit across from him.
Because tonight, I’m going to unravel him thread by thread.
The silence stretches long enough to make him uncomfortable.
I watch the way Julian fidgets with the edge of his napkin, eyes flicking over the silverware like one of them might be a weapon. Maybe he’s wondering how fast I’d stop him if he reached for the steak knife.
He wouldn’t make it past the appetizer.
The chef enters with the first course: braised lamb shoulder on a bed of saffron risotto. A drizzle of blood-orange glaze darkens the meat, shining under the low light. On the side are charred asparagus and microgreens, arranged like they matter.
Julian doesn’t touch his plate right away. He just sits there, one elbow braced on the table, swirling his wine like he’s debating whether to throw it in my face or drink it.
When he finally speaks, his voice is low and dry. “So what’s your game tonight?”
I lift my glass to my lips, sipping slow. “Who said anything about a game?”
