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I laugh at her joke and join her, eating in silence. I enjoy the steak almost as much as the view and the company.
After dinner, as she starts on her dessert, I change seats and sit beside the girl. She doesn’t say anything but I can tell from the tense set of her shoulders that she’s not happy.
I drop my hand to her thigh.
“What the fuck?” She growls, dropping her spoon and glowering.
“What?” I ask coldly. She’s not behaving like normal girls do, so maybe she needs a not so subtle reminder of how this is going to work. “I got you the dinner that you wanted, so why don’t you show me how grateful you are?”
My voice is steel. My eyes, ice. The weight of my intention presses down heavily on her bare skin. She doesn’t reply, move, react in any way.
“No, thanks. I’m taken,” she eventually says stiffly.
“I don’t see a ring.” I smirk.
She waves her hand in front of my face, and I laugh again. Her grandmother could have given her that ring. It means nothing to me.
“It’s on the wrong hand, honey.” I don’t like the taste of that term of endearment on my tongue. It doesn’t suit her at all. This girl isn’t sweet.
“Means the same thing though. I’m taken. And not interested.”
“Is that so?” I drawl. “Then why haven’t you moved my hand?”
I’m more than a little smug as she glances down at where my hand is still resting on her leg. Even now she makes no move to remove it.
Trying to provoke her further, I start to lightly stroke and work my way higher. Then I squeeze the soft skin in my grip.
She snaps.
Her hand shoots out and grabs something. She moves with such lightning fast reflexes, I can’t even process what it is. Fiery pain explodes through the back of my hand and I howl in pain. It’s the shock that does it. I’ve sustained far worse with barely a sigh passing my lips before now.
It turns out to be her steak knife which she has driven through my flesh. My dick springs to fucking attention like a goddamn masochist soldier reporting for duty.
She shoots to her feet, the chair toppling over, and rushes to the door. I grab the nearest napkin and attempt to staunch the blood. Before she can reach for the handle, the doors fly open, and both of our grandparents are taking in the scene with horrified looks on their faces.
“What’s going on?” My grandfather demands.
“Is everything okay?”
“No, it’s not! Baxter’s had a little accident,” she says with a falsely sweet little smile.
An accident? Really?! How the hell would I accidentally stab myself with a steak knife during a dessert course?! How the hell am I going to explain that one?!
I purse my lips and glower at her, but I won’t say anything. The Order taught me better than that.
“I think he might need stitches.”
No fucking shit, darling! Of course I’ll need bloody stitches! I’m pissing blood everywhere. I have a steak knife still stuck in my hand!
“I have to go, I’m so sorry, but if I see blood I’ll faint.”
Yeah I call bullshit on that, I think, as she rushes past our grandparents.
“Raven wait!” Cordelia calls, turning to grimace apologetically at Grandfather. “I’m so sorry, Dicky, I have to make sure she’s alright.” Is she kidding me right now? I’m the one who just got fucking stabbed!
I shift in my seat, subtly trying to rearrange my pants. I’m harder than steel. That girl looks like she loves to bathe in the blood of her enemies. Holy fuck. I think I just fell in love.
