Page 6 of Crawl
My teeth clench together. Why is he asking me these questions? Winstone ignored Jenna for months, but now, it’s like he’s hunting me.
“Look at me,” he orders, his voice full of iron.
My body tightens, but I instantly meet his gaze. His dark eyes burn, those brown freckles on the whites captivating me. Like blemishes that make him beautiful in his imperfections. A ball in one eye and a thin string in the other. Like bait and a fishing line. Two eyes that haunt me, waiting to drag me out.
I pat my hands against my sides. I have to keep myself under control. Revenge is best served cold, and this asshole is going to choke on my icicles.
I force my lips into a wide grin. “Mr. Winstone—”
“Cash.”
“Cash,” I repeat. “I’m honestly very grateful for my position. Whatever you need, I’ll make it happen. And if I can’t, I’ll find someone who can.”
And I’m going to make you pay for what you did to Jenna.
“Good,” he says, his lips curved down into a sour expression, like he can read me somehow. I have to be better at this. Play along like I’m a good little assistant. Someone he can take advantage of. Just like Jenna.
But I can’t stop myself. Iwanthim to know that I hate him. I want him to understand my rage.
“I simply ask that you don’t cross any boundaries with me,” I say plainly, my voice louder than before. I shrug, covering it up with pleasantries. “I want to be the best assistant you’ve ever had, but I can only do that if I trust you. And that means knowing the expectations both ways andrespectingthose boundaries. Right, Cash?”
A smirk spreads across his lips. He steps closer, his footstep creaking on the hardwood floor. My stomach stiffens, but I stand my ground.
“Right,” he says.
I glance around as he takes another step closer. “The agency mentioned that you don’t often leave your room,” I say, nerves fluttering into my tone. “Thank you for meeting me down here. It’s very nice of you.”
Another step forward. We’re only a few feet apart now. The scent of his sweat drifts underneath his piney cologne, and it’s like we’re lost in the woods. I close my eyes, trying to stop my head from spinning.
“What else did they tell you?” he asks.
He steps forward again, the distance between us disappearing. I clear my throat.
“They said that you don’t like associating with people often. That I may not be meeting you for a few months. That I’ll be getting most of my instructions through email and notes.” I lick my dry lips. He takes another step forward. My shoulders fill with weight. I raise my chin, forcing myself to be brave. “That I will do most of your in-person meetings for you.”
He gives a slight shake of his head. “They forgot the rest, then.”
I open my mouth to ask questions, but a black cat pounces out from the hallway, curling at my feet. I bend down to pet her; her rough fur catches on my skin. It seems like she’s only recently become a house cat.
My brows squish together. “The agency didn’t mention any pets.”
“That’ll be your first task. Bones needs a good diet.” He tosses his head to the side, and I realize that his cat’s name is Bones. Weird. Where did he get her name?
He hands me his black card. “I have only two rules,” he says. “Recently, I’ve taken to leaving the windows open. Do not close them. And if any of my doors are closed,do notenter.Otherwise, you may come and go as you please, even if I’m occupied. My space is your space.” He turns to the stairs, and I scrape the hair at the back of my head.My space is your space?It’s a lie to make me comfortable and let down my guard.
“And Remedy?”
I lift my head. His palm rests on the volute handrail fitting, an expensive watch on his wrist, his face angled to the side, as if he can’t bother to address me directly.
“Button up your shirt,” he says down his nose. “You’re not going to control me that easily.”
I suck in a quiet breath, my fingers fumbling with the buttons on my shirt. The stairs creak as he ascends. Yeah, the cleavage was a cheap move, but he noticed. That means he feels something toward me, even if it’s only irritation.
I purse my lips, letting out a calming breath. Pet food. I can do that. As a personal assistant with the agency for the last few years, I’ve done a lot worse than ordering pet food.
I set up my laptop at the long, grey-washed wooden table to the side of the kitchen, then use his black card to order some expensive gourmet pet food that costs more than a week’s worth of my groceries. Bones circles at my feet, and I find a bag of dry food in the cupboards. I pour some into a dish, and as I lower it to the ground, the cat acknowledges me with brief eye contact before nibbling at the hard pebbles. How is Cassius Winstone a cat lover? Had I missed that in Jenna’s stories?
As I put the bag back in the cupboard, I grab one of the kitchen knives and imagine holding it to Winstone’s veiny neck, slicing across his stubbly skin until blood cascades down his white shirt like a red sunset over a white, sandy beach. Usually, I imagine my stepdad, but there’s something enchanting about picturing Cash right then. His angular, harsh jaw, his smooth lips, his dark, spotted eyes, bloodshot like his red-stained shirt.
