the table, looking unreasonably handsome in his dress shirt and khaki pants. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him out of jeans and a T-shirt before, so I allow my eyes to wander unashamedly over his perfect physique.
And Akor…
He’s glaring at our table, one of his hands gripping his butter knife while the other clenches around his steak knife. He has his cloth napkin tucked into the collar of his shirt, and the crazy bastard isn’t even blinking as he levels William with such a ferocious, incandescent glare that a lesser man would’ve shit himself. Hell, I’m not even on the receiving end of it, and I kind of want to pee my pants.
As I watch, transfixed, he begins to stab at his breadstick with his butter knife before using his steak knife to pantomime cutting his own throat. Through it all, his eyes bore holes into William’s oblivious profile.
“…and I said, ‘I don’t know if I can believe that.’” William laughs enthusiastically at his own joke, and I muster a weak one of my own. Honestly, I haven’t heard any of his story, but it’s better to pretend and feign laughter than admit the truth.
“That’s…funny.” I take another sip of my water before stabbing my fork into the pasta dish William ordered for me. It’s…okay, I guess. Not something I would normally get. I much prefer plain dishes instead of fancy-ass meals that seem to be trying too hard.
If William notices how distracted I’ve become, he doesn’t comment on it. He actually doesn’t comment on anything besides himself.
Huh.
How come I never realized how self-absorbed he was?
Maybe because you’ve been blinded by your feelings for him, a snide voice jibes in my head.
It’s like I’ve been looking at William through rose-tinted glasses, the color designed to make everything even more beautiful and ethereal in appearance. Only now, the glasses have been removed, allowing me to see what has always been in front of my face. And the real William? I don’t like him very much.
The warm and fuzzies which once resided in my stomach whenever I looked at him are nowhere to be seen. I can’t even muster the usual healthy dose of lust I’ve felt since middle school. Sure, I can admit he’s handsome in a preppy-boy kind of way, but he doesn’t make my heart palpitate and my blood race.
Not anymore.
“…you’re so funny,” Janie coos, and my hand tightens on the fork when, out of the corner of my eye, I watch her put her spindly fingers once more on Zolroth’s thigh. He immediately dispatches them, a frown marring his beautiful face, before laughing slightly.
“It wasn’t a joke, love,” he murmurs, his British accent causing her to practically swoon.
Love?
Love?!?
Why the fuck is he calling her love?
I know it’s a British term of endearment, but…it’s a freaking British term of endearment! How has Janie endeared herself to him?
Before I can jump from the table, charge over there, and rip Janie’s hand from her arm, I feel the metal prongs of a fork against my lips. I whip my head back in William’s direction to see him smiling slyly at me.
“Open up,” he whispers in what he probably thinks is a seductive purr, but all I can think about is how unsanitary it is to use the same fork.
Hesitantly, I open my mouth, and he shoves the bite of pasta inside of it before slowly, languidly, pulling it back out.
But come the fuck on.
He has the exact same meal as I do.
“What do you think?” William asks, reclining in his seat and swirling his soda in the glass cup.
“It tastes like…my food,” I murmur awkwardly as I dab at my lips with the napkin. I’m pretty sure William got more on my face than in my mouth. And if he has that bad of aim…
Well…
I can’t imagine the lower half will be any better.
Another one of Janie’s high-pitched giggles has me seeing green. And red. Sort of like Christmas colors. A fucking Christmas combination of jealousy and rage.
I don’t even understand half of the emotions running unbridled inside of me. Why am I feeling like this? I should be over the moon that I’m on a date with William, not obsessing over every interaction my fake ex-boyfriend has with my enemy.
And yet…
And yet my eyes are drawn to the five demons like heat-seeking missiles. Try as I might, they’re never far from the forefront of my mind, demanding my complete and utter attention. These fucking beautiful, damaged, broken men.
Mine.
That word