Page 18 of Torment
“Give me my clothes, Karson. I’m leaving.” My head tilts, studying her.
“You walk through the casino dressed like that, I’ll have to pluck the eyes out of every man you pass. Not something I care to do before I’ve had breakfast, but I will.”
Her lips part and I shrug. “Not a threat doll, just math.”
She stares at me in disbelief as I walk into the kitchen and open the refrigerator.
“Karson.” She sighs.
“I’ll give them back to you when they’re clean.”
“You washed them? When did you even take them?”
“While you were sleeping,” I answer flatly.
Her face twists with anger.
So dramatic.
“Cole dropped your bag off after Rapture closed. When I put it on the dresser for you, you were already passed out. So I gathered your clothes to wash them.” If looks could kill, I’d be dead right now. Her lips set in a hard line, and she tightens her fists.
“I knocked,” I shrug. “You didn't answer. I helped myself.”
I close the refrigerator with eggs in hand, and her head snaps toward me.
“Sit. Your clothes will be done drying soon. Then you can run,” I tell her, already moving—pulling bread from the counter, milk from the fridge, a bowl from the cabinet. I don’t look at her while I crack the eggs, splash some milk, and add a dash of cinnamon. Domestic. Normal.
Like I didn’t have her dangling over concrete eight hours ago.
Like I don’t still taste her fear on the tip of my tongue.
Dramatic? I don’t think so. Ashlynn doesn't respond to soft and sweet. If she needs me to be the villain, done.
She holds out for a minute, stubborn little thing. Weighing her options, she finally caves, dropping her bag in the middle of the floor before storming over to the couch. The cushions swallow her as she flops down with a dramatic huff. My eyesroll. At first, her hatred for me was real. Instinctive. No effort required. Now she has to remember to hate me—brick by brick, rebuilding that pretty little wall she’s meticulously built around her before it ever has the chance to crack.
The punch? Real.
The balcony tantrum before I held her life in my greedy hands? Not real.
We’re getting somewhere.
Looking up from my current task of good little house bitch, I see she’s laid out across the couch with a throw blanket across her legs. She stares out the balcony window, and I chuckle.
“Comfortable, princess?”
Her head snaps toward me. “Don’t call me that.”
I dip a slice of bread into the egg mixture and let it soak. “Okay, we’ll stick with terror.” Her face reddens.
“I hate you.”
“Yeap,” I grin, coating the griddle pan with a slice of butter. “You keep saying that but, I think you’re trying to convince yourself, not me.” She clenches her jaw.
Fuck. She’s pretty when she’s pissed.
“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?” Her voice laces with irritation.
“Breakfast?” I question, pointing at the pan. “I make a killer french toast, terror.”
