36 - Seal the Deal
Logan
Scars arranged another meeting, and I’m more than slightly concerned about this one.
It’s at the gallery, which means he intends to involve my Cordelia.
And that had me pacing the hallways, chewing the already inflamed skin surrounding my non-existent nails.
Not knowing what my uncle’s planning is dangerous territory because he’s fucking savage and nothing is beyond his boundaries if it gets him what he wants.
I, of course, went back shortly after her birthday and ordered it.
And as I’d cleverly found out her ring size, I could guarantee it would be a perfect fit.
Scar instructed me to bring it tonight—even more suspicious.
I’m hoping he just wants to see if it’s lavish enough to persuade her to marry me when the time comes.
The phone vibrates in my pocket, stalling my stride. Christ. I’m more nervous than a nun in a brothel.
Cordelia: Cox, what’s going on?
She only ever calls me that when she’s pissed off, although I’m clueless as to what I’ve done this time. Surely, she can’t still be sulking because I made her swallow, can she? Fingers skimming across the screen, I hit send.
Me: Would you believe me if I told you I have no idea?
Her reply is instantaneous.
Cordelia: No
That’s my girl.
Me: Well, I genuinely don’t this time, sweetheart, so your guess is as good as mine
Cordelia: Whatever
Me: Fancy hitting me with more than a one-word answer, little vixen?
Those three dots appear momentarily, flickering as she decides how to respond.
Cordelia: Screw you.
Sassy little madam. There are not many people I’d let get away with talking to me the way she does. But honestly, her bold defiance is a massive turn on—so it backfires on her, anyway. It just makes her more desirable and my cock harder.
The bell on the door chimes. Not a lot’s changed since my last visit. Stripped of all the colourful banners and balloons that hung during the opening night, it’s back to looking all business.
Scar’s frigid stare locks on. He and Dad sit at the back of the room behind the reception desk. They sip from champagne flutes, deep in conversation with Colette, Cordelia’s mother, who doesn’t even bother to acknowledge me. That’s fine, I always try hard to forget she exists too.
Cordelia materialises from the kitchen, looking radiant in plain denim jeans and a white blouse.
The wispy material drapes off one shoulder, revealing smooth, milky skin.
The faint purple discoloration on her throat shines through the layers of makeup she’s used, to conceal evidence from our latest session.
Her heels clack as she scurries over to thrust a glass into my hand.
I arch a brow, unable to stop my lips pulling into a downward curve.
Colette knows she’s pregnant and is still using her as some sort of land ‘trolley dolly.’
As Cordelia attempts to slink away, my fingers slip around her wrist, tugging her back.
She fits neatly against my chest, her sweet scent curling around me.
Her baby blues grow wide when I plant a kiss against that pretty mouth.
Holding her captive whilst she squirms under the gaze of our audience is a breeze, and she soon relents to the inevitable, lashes fluttering together as her eyelids drift closed.
I make sure to keep mine open; so I can observe every second of her mother’s cold disapproval.
The door swings open, inviting with it the November chill. Ezio swipes his feet on the doormat; Clarke doesn’t bother.
“Alright, lovebirds,” Clarke snickers, striding into the room. “Stick your tongue any further down her throat, and you’ll choke the poor girl to death.”
I roll my eyes, dropping the hand that’s cupping Cordelia’s cheek. “It’s uncanny how good you’ve got at ruining the moment, you know,” I huff, smiling at Cordelia’s flushed cheeks that’s nothing to do with the makeup she’s applied. “What are you doing here?”
They both give me this blank look as if to say, ‘How the fuck should we know?’ Hmm, so they’re in the dark too.
Colette hands the boys a glass each, making sure to throw her daughter a bitter snarl on her way back across the room. Scar waggles a finger in our direction.
“Seriously?” Clarke spits, shooting daggers at him. “There’s probably 0.0001% alcohol in this.”
Scar’s menacing stare remains resolute. Clarke hisses something under his breath and shoves the glass at Ezio’s chest.
“Logan,” Scar barks my name so suddenly I nearly wrench my neck whipping around to face him. My eyes turn to slits, suspicion clouding my vision. “On your knees.”
Staring ahead, unblinking, confusion racks my every feature.
His thick brows draw close, jaw tightening whilst he simmers through manifestations of rage.
He’s clearly pissed off that I can’t telepathically read through his stupid mind games.
With my arms crossed over my chest, I glance across at Dad, who for once looks just as bewildered as me.
Cordelia lifts her gaze; crystal orbs lit with an almost childlike innocence.
Her mother hovers in the background like a lingering stench, ready to leap in and assert dominance over her daughter the minute she tries to speak her mind. The guys both watch with genuine intrigue.
Finally, my eyes flit back to my uncle, who hasn’t so much as moved a finger.
His shadowy stare imprisons me, whilst dread permeates my grasp of reality.
Scar taps his breast pocket methodically, and my fingers twitch with the urge to abort, and sling the box in the river.
The motion is barely enough to draw attention, but enough to send me straight into a frenzied state of hysteria, complete with cold sweats and a racing pulse.
I swallow hard. This is a low blow, even for him.
Scar cuts the room with a look.
“I believe there’s something he wants to ask you, Cordelia.”
Eyes wide open, I nearly choke on my own saliva. He can’t want me to—no. He wouldn’t make me ask her in front of everyone. Would he? Who am I kidding? That’s exactly the kind of shit he’d pull.
“We don’t have all night, Ragazzo.”
I glare at him in his tailored suit of authority, but his expression doesn’t waver.
My breath comes out heavy, strained, as I gear up for what I’m about to do.
There’s no getting out of this. Scar wants to shackle Cordelia to me by any means necessary.
He wants to be certain she won’t rat us out and wedding us is an easy solution.
That’s why he wanted me to bring the ring.
Motherfucker.
A single glance at Cordelia’s belly has me committed to the decision. I force back a string of curses, dropping to one knee.
“What is going on?” Colette demands, voice stricken with impending panic.
Ignoring her outburst, I exhale a heavy sigh and reach for Cordelia’s delicate hand.
Our fingers slide together like the very last missing piece of a jigsaw puzzle.
With my other hand, I dip my fingers into my inner pocket, and out comes the little square box encased in the softest velvet.
Her eyes spring open at the sight, bright and beautiful, and her unoccupied hand flies to cover her pink lips, sucking in a lungful of air.
The lid snaps open with a single flick of my finger, and I’m even impressed by how slick and suave the move is.
My eyes glide up to meet hers; blue locked with blue; whisking us back to the bittersweet moment we shared one hundred metres off the ground, when everything else melted from existence.
I offer her a smile wrapped in gentle warmth and reconciliation.
“Cordelia Maeve Rousseau,” I speak softly into the room, even though my words are for her ears only. “You are already gracing me with the most precious gift imaginable. Will you do me the honour of becoming my wife?”
“No!” Her mother screeches, but a fierce shush hissed from my uncle’s thin lips quickly shuts her down.
Even now, as I’m down on one knee, proposing, she can’t let her daughter have one moment of her own. One instance, one minute where she’s not overshadowed by her mother’s insufferable selfishness.
I force myself to tune her out, concentrating purely on the radiant beauty shining down on me. I wait with bated breath for her answer, hoping for her sake and mine that she says yes. Because I don’t want to think about what happens if she doesn’t.