Chapter Nine
?
May the fake dating portion of our game begin.
Malcolm
For reasons I cannot decode, but would kiss on the mouth, I believe that Azalea is trying to pretend she’s in a proper relationship with me. Watching her attempt this feat is the greatest entertainment I have ever, in my life, observed.
I’m enchanted.
Obsessed.
Blessed beyond reason.
Discomfort rampant, Azalea stares at my gloved hand while we methodically make our way through the half of the park attractions we didn’t get to see yesterday. Brow furrowed, she clenches her fists and wrestles against determination.
She’s been doing this since before we got in line at Fantasy Haven’s most popular ride—Faerie Veil.
The impressive rollercoaster takes its riders on a magical adventure into a world beyond human comprehension, through a village of mythical inhabitants, up a mountain of frost, and around a valley of glimmering paraphernalia seemingly abandoned by the fair folk…
Needless to say, yesterday, when I suggested we ride it, Azalea looked at me as though I’d coughed in her vicinity.
Today, she’s worn out. Distracted. Easier to manipulate.
It wouldn’t surprise me at all if she’s not even aware what line we’re in.
Fragile breath fills her, and she unlocks her hand, closing it up again after moving it an inch toward mine.
Scowling, she shifts her disapproval from my hand to her own.
“Dove.”
She jumps.
Large blue eyes slash to mine, and her face twists into an expression that is nothing short of agonized. Her lips stretch back to bare her teeth—which I’ve just deduced might be what happens when she forces what she thinks a smile looks like—and she says, “Yes…crow?”
Longing for the day when she’ll really smile for me, I open my hand to her. “Here.”
She looks at my leather-clad fingers. Then back at me. Then back at them. Her pupils ping-pong as her fabricated smile gains a substantial amount in the way of constipation. “Ah,” she says, fortifying herself. “Th…anks.”
Her fist half opens, but her fingers do not meld with mine. They instead hover, near, like a claw.
From her eye twitching, I deduce that this must be an extremely hard science for her.
“Couples hold hands, so it’s perfectly normal,” I tell her. “Because we’re a couple, aren’t we?”
She winces. “An unconventional one…I think. Maybe. Possibly…”
Unconventional. The best kind. “Because you’ve only agreed to associate with me outside a work setting in an effort to make me suffer?”
Her eyes shift around us, searching for prying ears, then she hesitates, “W-well…”
Feigning surprise, I draw in a breath. “Dear little dove, don’t tell me…
Have your feelings for me changed already?
Or is this but a new method to torture me?
You got me excited when you told me you were going to be cruel.
Unfortunately, you’ve done a pitiful job since.
” Leaning in, I let my fingers graze the bruise I’m proudly wearing around my throat as I whisper, “Shall I assume getting my hopes up is part of your wicked plan? Or should I assume that…after the ecstasy you supplied me with last night…you’ve maybe, possibly fallen for me unconventionally? ”
Her gaze slices toward my neck, furious, disgusted, outright repulsed—then nothing. It’s gone. She shoves all that glorious emotion right on down.
Smile still in place, I poke, searching for it. “Just so you know…strangling me isn’t cruel when I like it.”
Conflict rears, suggesting the reason behind the shift in her behavior today. So that’s it. I see.
She snapped. She strangled. She remembered murder is illegal.
She latched onto the romantic application in her rage-prompted action.
So she now searches for the balance between me knowing she’s only doing this to make me suffer and her needing us to appear like a regular couple in front of any witnesses, so that the bruises around my neck don’t further incriminate her.
That’s absolutely, hilariously adorable.
Losing her toothy almost-smile, Azalea regains her aptitude for emoting and glares. I read you should already be dead by now in her eyes.
Poor thing.
Such a shame she left her burner behind. Such a pity she never got “Junction’s” text.
Which sent minutes after she left her vehicle to meet me in our place of employment’s parking lot.
If only she knew that plans had changed and my murder had to be rescheduled.
Tut tut. What poor luck for her and what a boon for me.
I’d kill to see how she reacts when she opens that message.
Unfortunately, I’ve not quite resorted to using my privileges as the owner of our building to plant cameras in her living room.
Few though they may be, I do happen to possess morals.
Well.
Moral, anyway.
At least this one. Because spying on the woman I love via camera goes a bit far, I think.
Tilting my head, I say, “What a nasty look. If I didn’t know better, I’d assume you hated me and wanted me dead.”
Her brows release, and panic widens her eyes, then the corner of her mouth hooks up in an odd, shaking way.
Bit by bit, she struggles through her words.
“I…admit…” The t exits her in a sharp, curt burst. “…there was a…” Her eye tweaks out.
“…certain…charm to…” Man, this looks painful—for her.
I’m having a great time. “…whathappenedlastnight.”
Those last four words spill out of her in a rush. Once freed from her mouth, she deflates, releasing air.
It takes years of skill to keep from laughing my head off.
My goodness. What an ordeal it is to suggest that she enjoyed anything involving me.
I’d feel bad if I weren’t so happy, if I weren’t so relieved to know that her emotions are accessible in a real way, if…I had a soul. Probably mostly that last one.
Chipper, I clasp her hand myself, weaving our fingers together and ignoring the gurgled, revolted sound that pops out of her throat in response to the action.
The line for the roller coaster moves, so I drag her along, merrily.
Before her head can spin and spiral, I distract it. “Was it your first time?”
“Huh?”
“Choking someone.”
She croaks, “I…uh… Um.” Her lashes flutter, her panic of oh no, I’m going to be caught in an attempted murder deleting everything else that plagues her. “N-no.”
No?
I bite my cheek, because she is not trying to tell me that she’s, actually, been previously invested in such behaviors as a means to imply it’s normal for her. She simply isn’t. Does she think she’s a good liar? A good actress? Because she really, really, really, reallyreallyreally is not.
My heart swells so harshly it hurts, and I discover that I can’t exactly handle how much I love her. I’d kill for her. Die for her. Anything. As long as it’s all for her.
Man, the moment she gets that, I’m screwed.
Pitifully, I glance at her. “So I’m not special?”
Her expression provides a select curse word prior to no, but her lips tell a different story. A, notably, indecipherable one. “W-well. I… It.” Swallow. “Th-that is…”
“Azalea.”
She goes rod straight. “Yes, sir?”
“You can just tell me it was your first time, and you liked it.”
Her look could dissolve steel it’s so acidic, but she mutters, “Fine. Sure. Whatever. Let’s go with that.”
Bringing her white-gloved hand to my lips, I hold her gaze as I kiss.
“Isn’t it fun playing with power? I swear, you get a taste, and that’s it.
The rush takes you. It twists the chemistry in your brain.
Suddenly, people are more interesting, and you just can’t stop yourself from seeing what happens when you step on nerves. ”
She is going to burn this glove. The intention sparks in her eyes a moment before she recalls that we are in public, and she can’t start fires in public.
Irritated, she subdues her emotions to offer a level judgment, “Is that what’s wrong with you?
You’re addicted to playing with power and like lording your position over everyone? ”
My brows rise. “I don’t lord over everyone.”
Her eyes narrow.
I shift my attention ahead, toward the building entrance and the covered portion of the Faerie Veil roller coaster line.
The glittering, welcoming dimness within the building suggests an icy coolness that is absent out here in the spotty sunlight.
Unless, of course, one is standing next to the ice queen that is my date.
Sweetly, I murmur, “Mostly I just lord over you.”
Her grip on my hand tightens, cracking our bones.
“It’s how I show affection.”
“Don’t be an absolute moron, Malcolm. You make grown men cry all the time. I watch them leave your office in tatters.”
And I watch her lysol the elevator after they’re gone. We all have our little mental illnesses that the world insists on calling “quirks.”
“You’re not six,” she sneers, continuing the diatribe. “Don’t you know the era of being bullied means he likes you is dead and gone? Women now have higher standards and demand the respect they deserve. Cruelty and negative attention do not translate into affection anymore.”
“I respect you.”
“No, you don’t.”
“I do, though. You’ve just never bothered to make me prove it.”
Exasperated, she snaps, “What does that even mean?”
“What do you think it means, little dove?”
Her narrowed eyes cut off me to peer at the encroaching front of the line. Her nose wrinkles, but she doesn’t mention my heinousness in putting us in this queue as she takes in the rest of the environment around us. Finally, she says, “Give me your phone.”
My heart rate elevates as I adjust my supply bag to get my phone from my pocket and hand it to her, mourning the loss of her palm against mine when she pulls away to take it.
Without removing her gloves, she taps the screen, and it wakes up. “What’s your password?”
“D-O-V-E. Twice.”
Her movement stutters, but she enters the corresponding numbers.
“I’ve always wondered. Are your gloves custom made?”
“Yes.” She enters my messages, scans the preview on a text from Iverson talking about his Flag Day ball, rolls her eyes, then finds her own contact labeled Dove in the favorites list beside him. Because they’re the only ones there.
“Touch-screen-friendly ballroom gloves…” I coo. “Adorable.”
She doesn’t pay me mind. What she does is share my location with her, then she lifts her chin and returns the device. Coldly, she says, “Run.”
I blink. “Run…?”
She gestures behind me. “Around the whole park before it’s our turn on this giant metal Petri dish.” Folding her hands together in front of her skirt, she blesses me with the first glimpse of a real almost smile. It’s the only one I have ever seen on her in person. Gently, she then says, “Go.”
Beaming, I pocket my phone, turn on my heel, and obey.
…knowing full-well that I might just be screwed.