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“You look beautiful,” I whisper, dipping down to run my lips over her neck.
“Wha—what are you doing?” she asks, leaning into me.
Moving my hands down to her hips, I grip them, pulling her into me. “Don’t make this mission more difficult than it has to be, Princess.” Her eyes narrow, her back straightening. “If you fuck with me, I’m going to hit back ten times harder. Only one of us is going to come out of that fight a winner, and it’s sure not going to be you.”
I back away, retreating to my chair. She watches me the entire time, a scowl on her face. It would be cute if she weren’t ruining my peace.
I arch an eyebrow at her through the mirror, and with a grunt she retreats to the dressing room. There’s a commotion from behind the door, and I realize that she likely can’t get the zipper down herself.
And the thought of that is fucking hilarious.
If she’s going to play with me, then game on.
* * *
“So you’ve clearly murdered people, right?”
I glance at her from the corner of my eye, already completely spent.
It’s been a long afternoon. Hours upon hours of shopping later, plus one grocery store haul, and we’re finally heading back to the compound. Jerry texted me hours ago that Paul was there hanging around, to which I told her to kindly eat a dick.
She said she’d rather chew off every single one of her fingernails than ever do that.
If she wanted this to be quick, she should have brought Sydney herself.
“Thatispart of my job description sometimes, yes.”
“So all of you have killed people?”
I sigh. “I liked it better when you weren’t talking to me.”
Or when she was sad. Anything was better than this.
“I liked you better when I thought you had good intentions,” she shoots back, examining her fingernails.
“I always had good intentions.”
She lets out a sardonic chuckle as she looks out the window.
And I think she’s going back to ignoring me.
“You know, you’d look so much hotter with a beard.”
My eyes snap to hers. “What the hell does that mean?”
She doesn’t answer.
Running her fingers along the cool leather of the car, I clear my throat, not knowing what to say next. What do I say to someone completely unwilling to work with me on this?
“You know we don’t have any other choice, right?” I say finally.
Her eyes flash to mine, and an icy cold feeling settles in my bones. “I’ll only do it if you grow a beard,” she says, her arms folding over her chest as she slumps back into the seat. My knuckles turn white around the wheel, my teeth grinding together so hard I feel like one may break.
“I have to keep it shaved for work,” I tell her through gritted teeth. It’s like she’s trying to make our lives as difficult as humanly possible. I have no idea how I’m going to survive this.
“And I don’t want to do this. I’m not marrying someone with a baby face.” She reaches over the center consul and grabs my cheeks between her fingers, squeezing them with a shake before I smack her hand away, swerving on the road ahead just slightly. “Grow a beard, or I’m not doing this,” she says.
I’ve never met a more infuriating woman in my entire life, from what I remember, and I’ve been under Jerry’s thumb for the past ten years.
