Maybe it’s hard living. All that violence and blood, adding to the lines around his eyes. Or maybe he doesn’t handle stress as well as the others.
I can relate.
“Why did you become a maid, Holly?” he asks.
And even though it’s insane, even though I should be tip-toeing around this man, my eyebrow ticks up. “I guess I just love to clean, sir.”
I mean, what a question.
His mouth twitches beneath the beard, and for a crazy moment our eyes meet and hold. Sparks crackle through my whole body, simmering in my blood, and I’m clenching my knees together, suddenly breathless.
Why am I sassing the enforcer? Why do I feel so giddy? And why do I want nothing more than to crawl into his lap, settling my weight on those strong thighs? Gah.
Talk about no self preservation instincts. But the thing is, the enforcer and I… we’ve been orbiting each other for weeks. Always glancing up in time to catch the other’s eye, always hyper aware of each other’s presence. When he walks into a room, the nerves tingle under my skin—and whenever I meet his gaze head on, a muscle leaps in his bearded jaw.
Iknowhim. I feel him on a level that I don’t feel other people, and I know he feels me too.
Okay, that sounds nuts. So maybe I am just losing my mind from constant stress.
Cedrone tilts his head, watching me without blinking. In the lamplight, his eyes look almost black, but I know better. When he stared at me in the library last night, I saw the tawny flecks in his eyes and the mahogany rings around his pupils. He’s got beautiful eyes—brown but so much warmer than the Governor’s.
“You ever heard of Governor Edwards, Holly?”
Speak of the devil. Or think, anyway. I press my damp palms against my apron and say, “Yes. He’s famous. Well, famous for a politician, anyway.”
All true so far. Cedrone grunts, and the armchair creaks as he gets more comfortable. He’slazing, showing off how strong and at ease he is, and it’s so messed up that it makes my belly tighten.
Those thighs really are big, even disguised by his fancy clothes. And thosehands.They’re like dinner plates. Is he huge all over?
Oh my god. What is wrong with me?
Here I am getting questioned by a man who’d wring my neck without a second thought, and all I can think is that I’d like to perch on his shoulder like a canary. Must be the nerves, making me hysterical.
“I didn’t vote for him,” I say. Maybe I can get through this by guiding the conversation, sticking only to the truth. “Governor Edwards gives me the creeps.”
“He gives you the creeps through a TV screen?”
Shoot. “Yes?” But I don’t sound sure. “Why are you asking about him?”
Do they know already? Am I a dead woman?
Cedrone shrugs, and it’s like an earthquake of muscle and bone. Tectonic plates shifting under the fabric of his black button-down, and all I want to do is cling to his bulk and weep.
Because I’ve been dreading this all day.Interrogationis such a horrible word, but it’s the one that everyone hissed under their breath in the kitchens. Makes me think of thumbscrews and fingernails being pulled out; groaning bodies hanging from chains in a damp stone basement. Drains in the center of tiled floors.
Does De Rossi have a torture chamber? I would not be surprised.
But Cedrone watches me, his expression neutral. The lamplight makes his tan face look golden, softening his scar, and I catch myself leaning forward like a flower tracking the sun. Desperate for an ounce of this man’s warmth, even it means getting singed.
He watches me shifting closer then sighs.
“I don’t enjoy this, you know,” he says quietly. Almost like he’s talking to himself. “I don’t enjoy scaring women. Doesn’t sit right with me.”
“But you enjoy scaring the men?”
Cedrone’s gaze is level. “Sometimes.”
My mouth twitches, even though what he said really wasn’t funny. “I bet you’re good at it.”