22. Scarlett
SCARLETT
THERE’S TWO OF THEM
Idrink the last of my coffee and mourn what I’m too polite to ask for more of.
And by polite, I mean terrified. Instead, I push up from my chair and carry my cup to the sink.
I pass within a foot of Paul Jameson, close enough that he could reach out and snap my neck.
He’s a highly trained soldier, after all, and doing so would make his wife immeasurably happy.
But he doesn’t touch me, and I don’t die, in spite of how tempting eternal sleep feels to my exhausted brain.
Rinsing my cup just as thoroughly as the first, I turn it upside down and wait for the excess water to drip off, then I set it in the drying rack, exactly where it was before I came in here.
Turning and dragging the too-long sleeves of Sebastion’s hoodie over my hands, I glance up at his father and know, twenty years from now, thirty years, exactly what Sebastion will look like.
Handsome and kind.
“Thank you for the coffee.” I dip my chin in farewell. “And the conversation. You didn’t even make me cry.”
His eyes flicker with amusement, even as his shoulders bounce with silent laughter. “I never had a daughter, Ms. Castro, so I’m not entirely sure I’d know how to comfort a crying young lady. I’m just as thankful for our tear-free conversation as you are.”
“Arabella doesn’t cry? Ever?”
“Once or twice over the years when the situation truly called for it.” His lips curl into a playful smirk. “However, I’m not sure I would, or should, respond the same way. You are two entirely different women, after all.”
“Of course.” Stupid, stupid. Stupid. “I’m sorry. Forget I…” I bring my hand up and nibble on my pinky nail. “Ignore me, please. And if, despite my roundabout suggestion, you still feel as though I would be better buried in a shallow grave, could you do me the favor of not warning me ahead of time?”
Surprised, his brows shoot high on his forehead. “You wouldn’t want to know?”
“No.” I start toward the doorway. “I overthink these things, and I’d rather not spend my last moments wondering ‘am I walking too fast for their sharpshooter’s comfort?’ or ‘would they like me better if I dug my grave myself?’”
From stunned surprise to a loud guffaw, Paul throws his head back and barks out a booming laugh. “Jesus. What a way to be, huh?” His cheeks glow red with cheeriness. “You’d dig your own grave too?”
“Pathetic, huh?”
“I think that may be the fawning thing,” he chuckles. “Though, I find comfort in knowing you do not fawn for my son. You bite back and err on the side of bitchy bitterness, which tells me you’re capable. You just need a little more practice. Oh, and Scarlett?”
I stop just before the door and turn back to meet his gaze. “Mm?”
“I encourage you to reconsider the intent behind my son’s teasing.
I suspect it’s less about weeding out the weak, and more about providing you with an opportunity to fight back.
” He lifts a single shoulder. “But what do I know?” He tips his chin toward the doorway, while the thunderous march of men, dozens of them, comes this way.
“Run along now. If you wish to eat with everyone else, you’re welcome to.
But I suggest putting on a pair of pants. ”
And just like that, humiliation blooms inside my chest. I grab the hem of Sebastion’s hoodie and dart into the hall in search of freedom, only to lock eyes with that man from last night, the one who stood with Arabella and took my phone.
A terrified yelp bursts from the depths of my lungs, but my feet keep moving. If he intends to speak, or break my neck, I move too quickly for him to latch on.
Yay, flight! Go, baby, go.
I hurry along the hall and skid to a stop at my bedroom door, then slowing my racing breath and gripping the handle, I quietly type in the pin code Sebastion gave me and grit my teeth when each number elicits an electronic beep.
8. Beep. 6. Beep. 4. Beep. 9. Beep.
I hold my breath and stop barely short of crying when the handle beep beep beep beeps to announce my entry, then I twist the knob and step into the darkness.
My pulse thunders painfully against my chest. My hands shake and my head throbs, but I move into the room and shut the door at my back, then waiting a moment for my eyes to adjust to the low light, I glance at the bed and find Sebastion exactly where I left him.
Except, not exactly. Because instead of snuggling into a pillow and snoozing with his lips popped forward, he lounges amongst the pillows, his back against the headboard, his ankles crossed, and his chest, still bare and ridiculously on display.
He looks me up and down, his twitching lips and glee-filled eyes promising more secrets kept than that of his mother’s address. But while I clamp my mouth shut and drag the sleeves of his hoodie over my hands, he merely lifts his chin that way he does.
It’s hello. It’s you’re busted. It’s I’m eternally horny and like to torment you for fun. “You had me worried for a sec there, Princess. Thought you snuck out.” He peeks past me to the door. “Where’d you go?”
“I wanted coffee.”
He peers down at a small white China cup balanced on his thigh, then across to the paneled section beside his desk. “There’s a machine over there.”
“Oh… Well…” Thank the good lord! “I didn’t know. But thanks.”
“Speak to anyone while you were gone?”
Just my executioner. No big deal. “Uh-huh.” I wander across the room and stop at the end of the bed.
Fingering the soft fabric of last night’s sweater, I pick it up, then my jeans, and take a whiff of both.
They stink of gas station funk and sitting-in-the-truck-all-day musk.
But they’re clothes, and I’m not sure I’ll survive another minute of Sebastion’s gaze dropping to my bare legs.
“Your, uh…” I ball them in my arms and nibble on my bottom lip.
“Your dad came in while I was making coffee.”
“Really? What’d he say?”
“That of all the mugs in the kitchen, I chose the one I really shouldn’t have.” The ink right in the center of his chest calls for me to ask questions, the woman he had drawn there stares into my eyes, but instead of asking them, I turn on my heels and head toward the bathroom. “Been awake long?”
“Mmhm.” He brings his cup higher in my peripherals, sipping from the delicate China like he’s not seven whole feet of swollen muscle and thick fingers holding a teeny tiny little handle.
“A few minutes. I sent someone out to get your suitcase. If you wanna wait just a little longer, you can put something fresh on.”
I’ll put these on for now, and fresh clothes once they arrive.
Entering the dark-tiled bathroom and spotting the messy blanket still in the crisp white tub, I toss my jeans and sweater onto the counter, then strip the hoodie off and leave it on the floor.
I consider taking a shower. I could buy myself an hour, or a lifetime, boiling my skin red, but the thought of sliding into dirty clothes immediately after makes the decision easy.
I whip my jeans out straight and tangle my legs in the denim as I move quickly, because if he was comfortable enough to carry my underwear-less sleeping body to his bed in the middle of the night, then I doubt he’d take issue with walking in here while I was naked, too.
“Why’d you put me in the bed?” Fastening the button on my jeans and tearing the zipper up, I snatch my sweater and tug the sleeves out the right way. “I was happy where I was, and I didn’t give you permission to move me.”
I’m met with silence. With the thump of my pulse in my ears. “Sebastion?”
“Yeah, Princess?”
I squeal and spin and tear my sweater down to cover my belly as I go, then I meet his playful eyes and that taunting smirk that hurtles me closer to insanity.
He relaxes in the doorway, shirtless, disgustingly sexy, one muscular arm lifted to the frame, while the other hangs by his thigh—right beside my suitcase.
“What the hell is wrong with you?”
Smug, he merely taps my case with his foot and sends the whole thing rolling halfway across the bathroom. “I told you to wait a sec. You got ink on your spine, Princess? I never would’ve picked you for it.”
“How could you possibly know when you never had my permission to look?” I stomp across the room and whip my suitcase over until it lands on its back.
Lowering into a crouch and tearing the zipper open, I search its contents for fresh underwear.
Because wearing jeans without panties might land me officially on the other side of safe for society. “You knew I was getting changed.”
“Uh-huh.”
That’s all he says. That’s all he cares to express.
He knew, and he violated my privacy anyway.
“You didn’t have permission to move me to the bed, either.
” I snatch out a clean pair of jeans and a long-sleeved, form-fitting top that wouldn’t be nearly warm enough for outside.
But I don’t intend to go there anyway. “Willfully violating another person’s privacy and autonomy is a despicable personality trait. ”
“Eh. I suppose it’s a matter of perspective. You call it a violation, I call it looking at something pretty. Besides, who says you didn’t sleepwalk to the bed? Bathtubs are cold and uncomfortable, so it’s entirely possible your subconscious did what your stubborn consciousness wouldn’t allow.”
“Did I?” I snatch out a pair of underwear, and then a bra. Shoving to my feet and slamming my fresh clothes onto the counter, I swing my gaze back around and glare in response to Sebastion’s playfulness. “Did I sleepwalk, Boot?”
Chuckling, he shakes his head gently from side to side. “Nah. I moved you. Might’ve copped a feel while I was at it, too.”
I sneer. “You’re an asshole.”
“And you get awfully clingy while you’re asleep. I might’ve picked you up, but you’re the one who threw your arms around my neck and snuggled in.”
Hot pink humiliation stains my cheeks.
I didn’t!
Did I?
“I put you on the bed and unraveled your arms, but little miss Fancy Pants over there—” Me. Oh, God, he means me. “You went ahead and curled closer, like maybe you wanted to be my big spoon.”
“Stop it.” I stride forward and slam my hands against his chest. But he’s just too damn big, too heavy to move if he doesn’t want to be moved. “Leave. Now.”
“But this is my bathroom,” he teases. “My bedroom. My house.”
“And you brought me against my will, so you don’t get to act like I begged to come here!
Get the hell out.” I push again, and this time, at least, he takes a step back.
“You’ve had the mommy-and-me reunion already.
I know you missed her, so why the hell aren’t you up her ass already?
Maybe she needs you to stroke her hair or some shit. ”
Instead of the bad mood I’d intended to trigger, all he does is laugh in my damn face. “That was a nice try, Princess. But I don’t stroke my mom’s hair anymore. I stopped way back at my last birthday.”
“Get out!” I shove as hard as I can manage and swing my arm out to grab… to grab… I search by touch and close my fingers around nothing. “Your bathroom doesn’t even have a door?”
“My private bedroom,” he snickers. “My private bathroom. Never needed a door in the past, considering no one came into my room without my thumbprint or a four-digit passcode.” He lifts his chin that way he does, infuriating and smug. “Call your brother and bitch about how horrible I am yet?”
“Nope! But I was planning to do it first thing this morning. Can I get my phone back yet?”
“Nope.” He retreats and brings his hand to his jaw, rubbing the coarse stubble like he thinks it’ll hide his annoying smile.
“But you still have access to the outside world using my phone. Your text history and contacts have been transferred across, which means you get to pick up where you left off.” Finally, his eyes narrow.
“You didn’t even tell him we’re here yet? ”
“I texted him last night,” I snarl. “Told him I was alive.”
“Tell him where we are?” he growls right back. “Did you fuck up already, Scarlett?”
“I told him we were at your mother’s house somewhere in the ass-crack of Delaware or some shit.
I told him I counted forty-seven soldiers, all carrying high-powered weapons.
” No, I didn’t. “And how your mom is directly responsible for your shitty attitude, since it clearly runs in the family.” Yeah.
I said that bit. “I texted Detective Mills, too.”
His eyes tighten to feral slits.
“Told him we moved, and that I was safe. Informed him I’ve somehow landed myself in another abusive relationship, but he needn’t worry, because I learned this cool new trick where I’d take a knife and plunge it into a man’s eyeball.
Dig that blade in nice and deep. Give it a wiggle until he starts talking another language.
” I flash a wild grin and make a plan to find a knife.
Soon. And maybe a bathroom door if I can manage it. “Wanna test me, Boot?”
“Testing you has become my new favorite way to start my day. Every fuckin’ day of my life.” Smirking, he looks down at my chest and licks his lips. “Your nipples go hard when you argue with me, by the way. It’s delicious.”
Stunned, I slap my palms over my breasts and loathe the hot sting of tears on the backs of my eyes. “You’re deplorable.”
“And you get hot bickering with me.” He turns away and whistles under his breath, like the dark, detailed ink on his back doesn’t steal my breath and turn my brain to mush.
A warrior stands proud against his skin, his helmeted head at the base of Sebastion’s neck, while the warrior’s feet and the tip of his sword extend all the way to the waistband of Sebastion’s pants.
He wears thick armor and carries a shield on his back.
Another on his arm. Skulls litter the ground at his feet, while a smoking war zone suffers in the background.
Buildings have collapsed under the weight of battle, all but one tree has fallen, and men lie dead.
But not him. Not the warrior.
He’s the last man standing.
“You’re staring, Princess, and your objectification hurts my feelings.
” He stops in front of the bed and peeks over his shoulder, his eyes dancing with torment, while his lips curl into a smug grin.
“Unless you wanna fuck. In which case, do what you’ve gotta do.
I have never in the history of my life had hurt feelings while a woman had my cock in her mouth. ”
Growling under my breath, I spin on my heels and instinctively reach out to grab the door. To slam the damn thing. To punctuate my mood with the crack of wood against wood.
The fact I can’t only makes me angrier.
Maybe you should text Serena! I scream in my head. She offered to suck your cock twice last night.
Asshole.