Page 335 of Iced Up Love: Part Two

Now I do laugh, low and brief.

“Because you walked over here.”

Her eyes flash.

“That isn’t the win you think it is.”

“No,” I agree. “It’s more than that.”

The answer throws her for half a beat, and I can almost see her deciding whether or not to leave. Instead, she squares herself and says, “I’m aware of who you are.”

That interests me more than it should, but doesn’t surprise me. We spent too many hours going over everything in Paul’s past and walking in and out of rooms smelling of blood for her not to understand what I am a part of.

“Are you?”

“Yes.” Her voice lowers. “And I’m not naive enough to mistake a nice suit and family manners for something gentler than what you are.”

Now we’re somewhere. I tilt my head slightly.

“And what am I, Evelyn?”

This time there’s context enough between us that the question lands exactly where I want it to.

“You’re a bad man,” she says. “Who does bad things.”

There is no fear in it. Only judgment. Possibly fascination. Definitely awareness. And that, more than anything else tonight, makes my blood warm.

Because she sees it. Most women don’t. Most women sense danger and romanticize it or run from it. Evelyn sees it clearly enough to name it and still stands here.

I let the silence stretch just long enough to make her feel it, then I smile.

“Maybe,” I say. “But I think beneath all of this” I gesture faintly between us, the party, the polished people, the entire decorative shell of acceptable society, “you’re the kind of woman who’s tired of good men who only know how to be good in ways that make themselves comfortable.”

Her expression changes.

“Why would you think that?”

Because I’ve been watching you. Because every time you bite back, there’s disappointment underneath it. Because every time he touches you, you tolerate it instead of leaning in.

But I say, more softly now, “Because I think you’d rather have a man who would burn the world down and hand you the ashes than one who smiles nicely while asking you to stay small.”

Her eyes widen just a fraction. There it is. The reaction. Immediate and involuntary. And then it’s gone, replaced by composure rebuilt with impressive speed.

“I hope you’ve enjoyed Houston,” she says coolly. “I’m sure there are plenty of women in New York who would be more than happy to entertain you.”

I look at her for a long moment.

“At no point,” I say, “have I been talking about other women.”

That lands too. She hates that it lands. Good.

She steps back. Not retreating just ending the conversation.

“I’m sure whatever game you think you’re playing is very entertaining for you,” she says. “But I’m not interested in being one of your hobbies.”

I could tell her she wouldn’t be a hobby. That she’d be an obsession. That I haven’t been genuinely interested in anything this much in a very long time. That she should be careful about calling this a game, because I was raised in a world where winning is often decided long before anyone else notices the board has been set.

Instead I let her go with dignity.

For now.

“Enjoy your evening, Evelyn.”

She gives me one last look, half warning, half challenge, and turns away.

I watch her walk back across the terrace. Watch the shape of her settle again into the party, into the role she thinks she’s choosing, into the man beside her who still doesn’t know the difference between being near a woman like that and actually having her.

And I understand something with complete clarity. She’s right about one thing, I am a bad man. I do bad things. But what she hasn’t understood yet, what most people don’t understand until it’s too late, is that men like me do not lose interest once it’s real, and I do not walk away from something I want, and what I want more than anything, is Evelyn.

And one way or another, she is going to learn exactly what it means to be wanted by a man like me.