Chapter Three #2
Does he hate me because I gave in to the rules instead of exhausting myself in a fruitless battle against them?
Maybe he thinks I’m weak.
And maybe he also hates that weakness.
Before the idea has a chance to marinate, he lets my hair slip from his fingers and says something…
stupid. “Become mine, Azalea, my darling little dove.” Something not unlike the bedroom gleams I saw in the dating sims I played last night takes hold of him.
“I should like to own you more completely.”
Huh?
That…
Isn’t hatred at all, is it?
That…actually sounds more like…
The scripts from those horrible sims.
Sickness swells as I realize what’s happened. When I said I couldn’t tell him how I felt, he assumed my feelings were not safe for work in a different kind of way.
And that different kind of way…is what he feels.
My stomach curdles as my flesh goes cold. Terror grips my nerves in an icy claw. Surely I’m confused. Surely he doesn’t mean to imply he’s attracted to me. After everything he’s put me through, there’s no way he’d be attracted to me.
Wait. No.
No, no, no. Please.
Don’t tell me.
There was that one sim I turned off because I couldn’t handle the storyline. It involved abuse mixed with romance, and horrified cannot begin to describe what I felt as the premise became clear.
Please tell me that’s not what’s happening right now. Please tell me Malcolm doesn’t think I’m a little, doe-eyed freak who likes the maltreatment he dishes out.
Heart in my throat, I whisper, “What…are you saying, exactly?”
Bracing his arm against the cushions beside us, he settles his chin in his palm. “Go out with me.”
Fright spears me.
This can’t be happening.
After Junction just told me to seduce and date him, he’s propositioning me himself. That’s suspicious. Unbelievably suspicious. There’s no way it’s a coincidence, is there? But there’s also no way he could know what I’m planning, right?
I’m probably paranoid.
Of course I’m paranoid.
Most days, I’m so paranoid I can barely feed myself.
If there’s anything I’m known for, it’s paranoia.
Mouth dry, I say, “You want to date me?”
“Yes.”
“Ah…” I search his steady smile. “I’m so sorry. I must be confused. Is this a romantic inquiry?”
He laughs. “More like a romantic command. I don’t recall serving a question on my end.”
“Right.” Because why would he? “Okay.” No, not okay. This still doesn’t make any sense. The first step of my assassination career can’t all be falling into my lap. I’ve done no seduction. I’ve made zero effort. And I really, really, really do not understand what’s going on. “To what end, exactly?”
He lifts a brow. “To no end. You become mine. In every way. Forever.”
I stare at him while he describes my personal version of heck. “So you’re suggesting a life sentence?” Don’t normal people have a different word for that? And isn’t it… “Marriage?”
The heat in his expression simmers and boils. Slow, he says, “How would you reply, Azalea, if I were telling you to marry me?”
My entire body turns to ice.
If I marry him, I’ll become the prime suspect when he dies, no matter how he dies.
I can’t marry him and safely kill him within two brief months. Just dating him publicly would look bad enough, which is why I was hoping our involvement could be more of a scandalous situation, the kind no one knows about and no one will ever know about.
Presently, I’ve been his assistant for two years. It’s normal for us to be seen together, and apparently it’s normal for there to be assassination attempts. A secret affair with no clear origin point wouldn’t hold up as any kind of proof.
Government documents announcing us as husband and wife weeks before his demise would.
Cautious, I say, “No. I don’t want to marry you.”
The sultry edge of his smile bores into my skull. “So you want your unsafe-for-work thoughts about me to take place outside wedlock? I’m surprised. You seem like such a good girl, always intent on doing exactly the right thing. Now, I’m not saying I’m unwilling. I’m just…disappointed.”
Yeah. Well. Guess what? I’m both unwilling and certain you’re insane.
This is why people who hate other people really need to invest in professional assassins, because what do you mean I’ve somehow successfully seduced him, yet I’m staring—slack jawed and stupid—instead of jumping on this opportunity?
Because I’m an idiot and a terrible assassin, I whisper, “Are you trying to communicate that you like me?”
“I love you, Azalea.” He leans back, removing a pair of black gloves from his pocket.
Horrified, I watch as he pulls them on. Then the harrowing sensation of his leather-clad hand meets my cheek.
“I want you to want me so badly you suffer in my absence. I want you to grow accustomed to begging for me. I want your greatest fears to center on losing my favor. I want your heart in my palm, and I want you teary eyed while I squeeze. I love you, my dove. Let me own you, like a bird in a cage. Put your wings up to my blade and flinch for me as I clip them.”
I flinch, outright, while my heart takes up a somewhat permanent residence in my throat.
“Yes…” he murmurs, eyes dazed, touch solidifying. “Just like that.”
This has to be karma. Surely this is divine punishment for so much as even desiring to kill someone. And, yet, on the other side of it, I have never met a man less deserving of life. Because if what I’ve experienced is his twisted idea of love, there really can’t be anything good in him.
“What happens if I say no?” I ask.
He flinches, fingers spasming against my cheek. “Would you dare?”
“This isn’t the loveliest picture of a relationship. Surely you see that.”
His gaze hardens, determined and lethal.
“What picture do you envision? Something soft and clean and pure? Something clinical? A precise number of feelings in alphabetized boxes with fitted lids? My desire for you overflows, messy and uncontrolled. It’s a whirlwind and a flood.
It destroys and conquers and craves. Does the idea of that alone make you sick? ”
Yes, actually. It does. I’d very dearly like to wake up from this nightmare before I retch all over everything and struggle to feel right again for days.
“I disgust you,” he says.
I steel myself, forget my objective, and hiss the skin-prickling truth, “What do you expect? You’re demanding and controlling and tyrannical with me.
You abuse your power whenever possible. You’re cruel.
Yet you think I’m going to give you even more of myself just because you want it?
I’d sooner believe you’ve found a new game to play in making my life miserable.
” I sneer. “If you’re serious, if you actually love me in some repulsive but sincere way, prove it.
” I point at the ground between us and the slick black coffee table. “Get on your knees and beg.”
The fog of rage clears once that final word slips from my gritted teeth. In the sudden clarity, I understand what I’ve just done.
I’m…
So completely fired, aren’t I? Blacklisted, too, I bet.
Not a single person in the entire city of Vexillum, Illinois will want to hire me now.
I’ve just destroyed both my career and my livelihood, proving once again why I should keep my mouth shut and my feelings separate from…
everything. They have never once served me well.
It’d be so much better if I didn’t have them at all.
Malcolm shifts, and a shiver plunges into my body.
His knees hit the ground.
Blood drains from my flesh as his gray eyes fix up on me. Gloved palm to his heart, Malcolm says, “Please.” Extending his free hand, he holds back no desperation. His fingers…tremble. “Give me your wing, dearest dove. I beg you for it.”
He’s…despicable.
Anger rears once more. “I’m not convinced.”
He smiles, and its as soft as his eyes are wicked. “And you call me cruel,” he murmurs.
Because he is. He always has been. And he knows it. Simmering with hatred, I hiss, “Do something permanent and irrevocable. Anyone, even you, can fake humility for a few moments to get what they want.”
“Permanent and irrevocable?” He chuckles. “That seems excessive.”
“Does it now? I want you disfigured for me. Only then might I be convinced.”
“My, my…” His face bleeds crimson, and insanity sparks in eyes surrounded by all the splotchy red.
“I don’t know if it counts as disfiguration…
but…” He hooks his finger in his jet-black tie, tugs, and begins to undress in front of me.
As his suit jacket and dress shirt come undone, my stomach swirls, then… I see it. Ink. Across his breast.
Gaping, I stare at the bird surrounded by flowers over his heart. Intrinsically, I know what kind both the bird and the flowers are.
“Is this permanent and irrevocable enough for you, my sweet Delaware white Azalea, my wonderfully precious little dove?”
My heart pounds in my skull. “You’re not…serious.”
“Fairly serious, I think. Permanent, too. One might even suggest the word irrevocable.”
“That’s…definitely fake.”
“Please.” He spreads his arms, baring himself. “I’d enjoy every moment of you trying to scrub it off my skin. Shall I fetch your Lysol? Or would you rather have bleach?”
I cannot breathe.
His eyes glint. “Short of carving it out with a knife, though, I don’t think it’s going anywhere.”
This can’t be happening.
The man who’s been the bane of my existence for two years harbors some manner of twisted affection for me. Why is he telling me this now? It doesn’t make sense. Of all times to confess, why hours after I’ve been advised to date him? Why two days after I’ve agreed to kill him?
I should take advantage of this—I need to take advantage of this. Even if my head is spinning and I’m repulsed beyond words.
But doesn’t this make things more dangerous? If this tattoo is real, it’s already healed, so the timelines might be messy if they can trace a dove and azalea tattoo back to me, but…it still makes me nervous to be directly involved in his demise now.
Choked, I say, “I don’t trust you.”
“Who would?”
“If I agree to go out with you, there will be rules.”
“Bind me with them. Nothing would be sweeter.”
“I don’t want whatever our relationship is to be public.”
He tilts his head. “That’s amiable. Publicity makes an awful mess of things. What else?”
“You are not allowed to touch me without permission.”
His arrogant smile spreads. “You must be real fun at parties.”
I wince. “Is consent a joke to you?”
“Yes. What else?”
“You must make an effort to be kind.”
He laughs.
“I mean it. If I can’t stand you, then there’s no way we’ll last long. And that’s not what you want, is it?”
“No.”
“Because you want a lifetime sentence, don’t you?”
Humor tints him. “Marriage, yes. A lifetime with my precious dove is exactly what I want.”
“Right.” I’m shaking. “So. Convince me there’s more to you than cruelty. Because, if you want a wife, sir, you’ll have to start treating me like one.”
His head bows, and he looks at me through his dark lashes. “For clarification…I have to start treating you like one…or like mine?”
On wobbling limbs, I rise. “I suppose this’ll be a test in your discernment.
Discernment,” I bite back vomit, “is an important trait for husbands.” My voice trembles.
“I’m going back to work now.” One last time, I glance at the ink across his chest—at the brand of what he calls me and my legal namesake depicted all over his heart—then I barely swallow.
“And you should probably put your clothes back on before your next meeting.”
With that, I flee from the dark, dark room, toward the light of my workspace, barely reaching my chair before I collapse.