Especially with the way he’s watching me as if he’s at the point of explosion.
So I smooth my tone, stepping closer to him, my voice softening. “Can you please tell me what’s going on?”
“Stay away from Eli.”
My brows crease. “Isn’t he your brother?”
“Doesn’t mean you get to be close with him.”
“Why not?”
“Stop asking questions and do as you’re told.”
This is one of the times when I’d usually shoot out a barely thought-out reply and get myself in trouble. But I force myself to remain calm. In the few weeks I’ve spent in Creighton’s company, I’ve come to the realization that he doesn’t deal with human emotions like the rest of us do.
He’s not soulless like, say, Killian, Nikolai, or even Jeremy. It’s not that he doesn’t care. He just chooses not to. It’s a conscious decision he must’ve made a long time ago.
Which means that he does have feelings, imperfections, and secrets—that I’ve been trying to unravel.
And to do that, I can’t be guided by emotions. Not only does he not react well to them, but the more I escalate, the deeper he escapes into his sadistic mind.
So the only way to bust down his sturdy walls is to willingly open my own and show him the vulnerable part of me.
“You know I’m on your side, right?”
His grip softens on my wrist. “You are?”
“Sure as hell. I’m your number one fan and currently sabotaging all the other fangirls and fanboys, namely Harry, so they’ll stop thirsting after you. I’ll bribe him with luxurious skincare products and let you know how it works.”
His lips twitch and that’s the nearest thing to a smile he offers, so I snatch it, lock in the corner of my heart with his name all over it, and press my body even closer. “Point is, since I’m on your side, I kind of need you to trust me, put your faith in me and tell me things. I swear to Tchaikovsky’s grave that I’ll keep it a secret.”
“Is that so?”
“Totally.”
“Okay.”
“R-really? Okay?”
“Yeah. In return, you’ll stop bringing up Tchaikovsky.”
I pause. “But why?”
“I don’t like it when you admire other men.”
“But he’s dead. He’s been dead for over a century.”
“Don’t care.”
I can’t help the snort that escapes me. “Are you perhaps…jealous of a dead old man?”
“Guess that means you’re not interested in this trade.” He releases me and goes to sit on a nearby rock.
I follow after and pull the hood of my sweatshirt away from my hair, letting it fly in the wind. I spend a few minutes observing my surroundings, searching for a creepy animal. When I see nothing suspicious, I wipe the ugly, dirty surface and I settle beside him. “Fine, fine. No more Tchaikovsky.”
Except in my head.
He gives me an approving glance, then focuses back on the ocean, remaining as silent as the night.