Chapter 8
ADELINA
Cezar left, and my men exchanged brief glances, yet none dared to question me. After gesturing for them to vacate the room, Dorin settled on the bed. “What exactly happens now… Petal,” he quipped, putting extra emphasis on the nickname and fluttering his eyelashes with playful innocence.
“I will hurt you,” I retorted, pointing my finger at him. Holding his stomach, he erupted in laughter, finding my threat more entertaining than intimidating. “I guess we wait and see. Cezar is more than he seems to be, Dorin.”
Rising from my seat, I signaled for him to follow me, and we made our way out the door. I suddenly wanted ice cream, so I shoved Dorin into the car and informed him of our destination. The engine rumbled as we sped toward the nearest ice cream shop.
Inside, neither of us said much while we waited for our dessert.
“I can’t believe you eat that shit.” I slid his bowl away, nose wrinkling. To me, vanilla was the only flavor worthy of indulgence.
“All right, says the person who eats the plainest type of ice cream there is. I mean, have you no taste buds, Petal?” Dorin teased, staring down at his ice cream, deliberately avoiding eye contact.
“I swear to god, I will jump across this table and make you sorry for continuing to use the nickname he gave me,” I warned, my fists clenched around a broken plastic spoon.
“Sounds more like a pet name than a nickname,” Dorin remarked, a mischievous glint in his eyes.
In a burst of frustration, I flung my half-melted ice cream at him. “Fucker,” I muttered, swiftly stealing his when he was still processing the situation.
“Real professional, Petal.” He chuckled, wiping it from his face and shirt. The red haze of anger clouded my judgment as I leaped over the table like a fucking cat, ready to pounce. Yet, Vasile intervened, wrapping his arms around my waist and thwarting my attack.
“Goddammit, let me go. I need to fuck him up. Let me go, fuck,” I protested, my fighting spirit gradually giving way to a resigned acceptance.
In the car, I sat pouting, waiting for Dorin and the others to rejoin.
Eventually, he got into the driver’s seat, presenting me with another bowl of vanilla ice cream—a tentative peace offering.
“I shall accept. But only because it’s you,” I conceded, taking it and savoring the cool sweetness, momentarily appeased by the familiar taste.
What had gotten into me? Why was Cezar able to get under my skin so easily?