Chapter Four. Asad #4
And in this moment, staring down into those amber eyes that somehow possess the mystical power of appearing warm and so fucking frigid at the same time, I almost agree with my mother.
Because only something, or someone, with some kind of corrupt, dark power could make me feel as much as her.
Like I’m one six-foot-plus raw nerve ending.
Only she could make me … scared.
I’m the first to look away, to lose our visual square up. And for the second time in just minutes, I retreat. And not just emotionally. Physically.
Shifting backward a couple of steps, I place distance between us.
A much-needed distance where my head isn’t crowded with the delicious heat emanating from her soft body.
Or the delicate and precarious thump of her pulse at the base of her throat.
Or the no-nonsense citrus and sharp, fresh scent that’s like fresh fruit in the crisp, early-morning air.
I take another step back.
“Meet me in the study. We have something important to discuss.” I don’t wait for her agreement—shit, this is Ember, don’t wait for her argument.
Pivoting, I exit the kitchen without the water I’d initially gone in there to retrieve. Fuck, no man-made liquid could quench the thirst yawning wide inside of me.
Seconds later, I enter the study that’s as far from her father’s as the east is from the west. The only similarities are the walls of books and hardwood floors.
Otherwise, the one I’m standing in isn’t a showpiece carefully curated to display the owner’s wealth, status, and power.
Nah, this study is lived-in, used … loved.
The same block windows from the dining room claim a wall, while overstuffed bookcases occupy the others.
A group of chairs and low table congregate in front of another massive fireplace.
Instead of a bar, there’s a state-of-the-art entertainment center with a TV monitor and music system, including a record player and albums. Small glass containers fill the other section, and I don’t need to inspect the contents to figure out what they contain.
Ember is a fucking pothead. She loves the shit, and if it were possible, she’d probably fuck it.
Yeah, she got down with the Mary Jane like that.
Giving my head a small shake, I take in the rest of the room, landing on the large, cedar desk.
Unlike Marcus’s, whose desktop always remained ruthlessly clean, Ember’s looks like the stereotypical scientist works there.
It’s the only thing clichéd about her, the avalanche of papers and notebooks, memo notes stuck to the back of the monitor, a collection of random pens jammed into containers.
Behind the desk stands a huge whiteboard crowded with equations, numbers, and notes that make my head hurt just looking at them.
My stepsister is a gotdamn genius.
And that’s another reason I trust the bitch as much as I trust anyone, other than an auntie named Reetha Mae, to cook the macaroni and cheese on a Jesus holiday.
People say there’s a thin line between genius and insanity for a reason … And that reason is Ember Cross. She’s crossed back and forth over that line so many fucking times, she needs a visa by now.
“What is it that we have to discuss, Asad?” she asks from behind me. “You’ve already disrupted my yoga session, and I’m working on no sleep. Can we make this fast so I can take care of one of those two things?”
Where the fuck you been for all these hours?
Once more, the question blinks in my head like a twenty-four-hour diner sign, but I’ve been distracted enough. And if she’s been somewhere other than the lab, it isn’t like she’s going to tell me. Ember is more secretive than fucking KFC with that original recipe.
But I’ll find out.
I always do.
Until then, I need to get to why I’m here.
“Sit down.” I dip my chin toward one of the chairs in front of the dormant fireplace.
Her full lips roll inward, and her nostrils flare, but after a long moment, she heads toward the sitting area and sinks down onto one of the seats.
I follow her, the sweet and sharp scent leading me like I’m a doomed mouse caught up in the Pied Piper’s haunting and lovely snare.
Deliberately, I choose a chair with my back toward the windows, with her and the study doors in my view.
Anyone looking in on us might mistake us for acquaintances, or even friends, being cordial and catching up with one another.
They wouldn’t glimpse the proverbial line drawn in the sand visible to only the combatants sitting on either side of it.
During the long hours waiting on Ember to arrive, I went over how to approach her with my proposal.
Ember was stubborn, could be petty, and if she didn’t fuck with you, would screw you over even if it meant going against her best interests.
I fell into that last category. If we were trapped in a burning car, and freeing herself meant saving my life, we’d both just be two burnt muthafuckas.
So I need to tread lightly in how to approach her …
Fuck it.
“You’re going to marry me in a month.”