Chapter 10 Azalea
Azalea
I clench my shaking hands at my side as I stand in front of the door leading into the dining room.
This is absurd. I’ve had dinner with this beast of a man for what feels like a thousand times, but my mind can’t stop from wondering if this dinner is acting as the official start to our “courtship.” I grimace at the thought, but take a deep breath, reminding myself of why it’s so important that I pull this off.
Cursing my quickening heartbeat, I curl my fingers around the doorknob, pausing for a moment to let the sting of the cool metal ground me.
“Are you just going to stand there, or do you plan on going in?” I jump at the sound of Braxton’s voice behind me.
“Wh-what are you doing out here?” I ask, turning to face him. “You’re supposed to be in there.” I jut my thumb over my shoulder pointing at the room behind me.
He cocks his head to the side, clearly amused that he caught me off guard. “My sweet Wildflower, are you nervous?”
I swallow down the sneer that so badly wants to curl my lip upon hearing his ridiculous nickname for me, even more-so at hearing him call me his.
“What would I have to be nervous of?” I brush off through tight teeth. “We’re having dinner as we do every night.”
“Well, the reason I’m not in there is because I figured it was only proper that I escort you in tonight, seeing as you want to spend more time together.”
I see the question lingering behind his irises.
Is he testing me? I smoothly glide my foot backward, allowing for some much-needed space between us as I try to assess what game he’s playing.
I’ve learned that’s what Braxton does best when it comes to his toys, and I know that’s all I am to him—a trinket to play with and show off.
With the added distance, it doesn’t take long for his eyes to trail down my body.
I picked another particularly distracting dress for dinner tonight.
The cream-colored gown has a long bodice that hugs my curves until right below my hips, where the skirt then flows out in draped ruffles, and the square neckline is magical at helping to lift my bust so that my already ample assets are on display without being distasteful.
The creamy color of the satin fabric makes my dark hair and tanned skin look luminous in the flickering candlelight littered around the sconces in the castle.
Even now, I can see the flames flicker in Braxton’s dark irises that seem to have deepened as he gazes at me.
I’m almost taken aback by the look on his face.
It’s not leering or lustful, but something completely different.
Before I can place it, I watch him curl his fingers into a fist at his side, his knuckles going white.
When I left my room, I felt incredibly confident in this dress, but now as my eyes slide back to his, I find his expression to be somewhere between pain and loathing, and my presumption falters.
“Get inside,” he grits out before grabbing the handle behind me, pushing our bodies together.
I hear him release an excruciatingly tight breath as my body molds to his. Then, just as quickly as we stood pressed together, he shoves the door behind me open and stalks past me into the dining room.
His expression remains pinched as he takes his seat at the table and beckons the wait staff in to start laying our food out for us.
Confusion crinkles my brow as I take my own seat.
I thought this outfit would certainly be a good distraction for him while I gathered my bearings in pretending to enjoy his company, but he’s acting about as displeased as I feel.
I despise the effect his reaction is having on me, but I can't help but long for a shawl to drape around my shoulders. I'm starting to think I missed the mark and turned myself into a sight to be ogled due to my improper garments. Placing my elbows on the table, I cross my arms and plant my hands on my shoulders, trying to conceal as much of myself as possible. I know it isn’t the ladylike way to sit at the table, but I couldn’t care less at this point.
“What are you doing?” Braxton demands. His eyes are trained on the plate in front of him, which leads me to wonder what he is referring to.
“Hmmm?” I question, trying to feign indifference.
“Why are you sitting like that?” he bites out.
“It’s comfortable,” I reply with an equal amount of bite, though my cheeks redden. It’s bad enough that he’s made me feel like this about my gown, but knowing he’s noticed my reaction is one step short of pure mortification.
Using one arm to continue shielding my body, I pick up my fork with my other hand and slide the roasted potatoes around on my plate. One of my favorite foods that Marita prepares, and I can’t even enjoy it because I can feel his words grating against my skin like a dull blade.
“Why are you hiding yourself?”
This question makes my eyes flick up to him.
He’s staring at me now, no longer fascinated with the food in front of him.
The intensity in his gaze has my stomach coiling.
If I didn’t know better, I would say there was a hint of desire dancing inside his darkened pupils, but when they drop back down to my dress and his lips thin into a tight line, I feel humiliation burn through me anew.
Never in any of my nights eating with him have I felt this insecure or this stupid, and it makes me want to jump out of my skin.
I know I need to see this through, though, if I want any hope in encouraging him to drop his guard.
More importantly, I can never let him know he got inside my head like that, and the best way to do that is to act unbothered and as if my epiphany of disliking this attire was completely of my own accord.
Pulling my arm away from my body, I lift my chin defiantly. “I’m merely thinking perhaps this wasn’t the best dress for dinner tonight, is all.” I try to shrug nonchalantly but it feels stiff.
“Are you cold?”
“No.”
“Then why don’t you like your dress for dinner?”
My cheeks flame further. I didn’t think he would actually continue this conversation. Refusing to break eye contact, my skin begins to itch with the way Braxton is studying me.
“Are you referring to my reaction to your dress?” I would think he was teasing me with his inquiry, but there’s not amusement in his tone or expression.
I don’t say anything, but I’m increasingly annoyed by how transparent I must be acting.
My glare wavers as the temptation to look away from him seizes me momentarily.
Needing something to do with my hands, I bring my cup of water to my mouth.
I don’t dare sip the alcohol sitting in front of me with the way my emotions are warring with themselves.
I’m old enough to know that will only lead to a morning filled with regrets and a raging headache.
“Let me clear up any confusion,” Braxton drawls as if we were discussing something as mundane as the weather. “I want to rip that dress off of you with my teeth.”
His bold declaration has my eyes rounding, and I have to clap my hand over my mouth to keep myself from spitting out the water I now find myself choking on.
I silently thank the holy skies for my coughing fit seeing as I couldn’t string together enough words for the correct response to his statement even if I tried.
Thankfully, he takes that moment to keep talking, saving me from having to find a response. “So, if I gave any other impression, I would like to apologize wholeheartedly because the last thing I want you to do is go upstairs and change.”
His eyes bore into mine, and the lustful intensity burning inside his has my stomach dipping.
I try to school my features so he isn’t able to read the one question bouncing around in my brain: What the fuck has gotten into him?