Oaths and Omissions (Monsters & Muses #3)(7)

But I can’t possibly see anything else.

“How do you know who I am?”

Frowning, I turn around. “Are you saying you don’t know who I am?”

Again, she just blinks.

My eyes narrow, something irritable percolating in my gut.

Taking a step forward, I reach up to stroke my chin, letting my sleeve ride up a bit. A leather corded bracelet is tied around my wrist, pinned together by a black W-shaped charm.

If she recognizes the Wolfe family insignia, she doesn’t let on. For some reason, that irks me far more than her previous silence.

She was there the night I almost finished her father off. The ensuing arrest and trial were quite publicized on the island, and my face was plastered everywhere for years to keep the general public informed about the monster living among them.

Thing is, they don’t know even the bloody half of it.

“You’re damaging my ego, love.” Blowing out a breath, I crouch down and inspect the body. Blond hair sticks to his face, perpetually frozen in shock. “Here I’d been hoping our little tête-à-tête would be informative, but it appears you enjoy lying too much.”

“I’m not lying, and I don’t really give a shit about your ego.”

“Well, that’s terribly rude. My ego could save your pretty little arse right about now.”

Turning my head, I meet her soft gaze.

“I don’t need saving.” Her eyebrows knit together, a glare contorting delicate features.

One side of my mouth curls up. “Don’t you?”

Pushing to my feet, I circle around her slowly. Each crunch of my boots on the concrete has her curling into herself.

Almost like a lioness preparing for an attack.

“It was self-defense,” she says, and I see her right hand twitch.

Just once, then again in the direction of her victim, and for a moment I wonder if she’s finally cracking. Going back to the scene of the crime and experiencing fear without the barrier of surprise.

I pause at her back, my eyes drifting over the length of her body; in this position, she’s practically presenting herself to me on a platter, and I’m man enough to admit that her gentle curves in that tight red dress affect me.

Unwilling to entertain the lust even as it scrapes at my esophagus, I force my gaze to the back of her head. It shifts slightly, and I can feel her searching. Seeking me out so she can keep up her defenses.

Perhaps Tom Primrose’s puppet is more self-aware than the tabloids give her credit for.

“Who’s going to believe you?” I ask, reaching down to brush a strand of hair off her shoulder. I shouldn’t touch her at all, but I feel compelled to see if she’s as soft as she looks.

My chest tightens as the silken lock brushes over my fingertips.

Even softer.

“Maybe if you’d rammed the heel of your hand into his face or pushed him off the balcony. People would have a much easier time swallowing that tidbit as truth.” Tilting my head, I glance at the broken paintbrush lying on the ground beside the man’s hand, having rolled out of it when he lost consciousness. “But you came prepared. The move was calculated… at least, what I saw of it. Unfortunately, they’ll find that far more fascinating than the nature of your encounter beforehand.”

Her breathing becomes less labored as the seconds pass. Soon, the music from the party downstairs filters through our air, drowning out nearly everything else.

My shoulders lift in a half shrug. “It’s okay to admit you were out for blood tonight, Ms. Primrose. I know I was.”

More silence. Makes the air thick, rife with omissions.

I suppose she’s back to ignoring me.

The sound of her fingernails scraping against the ground isn’t audible, but I feel it in my spine, nonetheless. With a smirk, I walk as lightly as possible in the direction she’s inching, zeroing in on the weapon so our timing connects.

My shoes halt directly in front of the brush just as her fingers wrap around it. They curl tight around the handle, and she’s already midstrike when the toe of my boot swipes out, pressing down on the back of her hand.

Securing it to the ground and trapping the brush beneath.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

Tipping her chin up, she glares. Flames whip violently behind her irises, darkening the glassy hues. When she tries to pull away, I push down harder.

She winces, though I’m not applying enough pressure to do any actual damage. “If you’re going to kill me, just do it.”

“Why would I do that?”

A pause. Her lips part, her tiny pink tongue darting out to wet the bottom one.

Growing weary of her refusal to answer my questions, I pinch the side of my slacks and crouch down, draping my forearms over my knees as I meet her at eye level. My foot stays, keeping her hand in place and her on her knees.

Hatred burns through her features as we stare at one another, and my cock jerks behind the zipper of my slacks at the rawness of it all. She doesn’t even know how much she should hate me; it’s pure instinct at this point, something primal that drives her to react so strongly to my presence.

“I lied.”

My eyebrows arch, surprise etching into the planes of my face. “Oh?”

Folding her lips together, she gives a tiny nod. “I know who you are.”