Page 18 of Wicked Dove
“You’re staring,” he huffs, tilting his face in my direction without faltering in his workout.
“You’re putting on a show,” I retort, and the curl to his lips is sinful, but as he parts his mouth, ready to speak, a door creaks, snapping the energy around us.
Lurching to my feet, my breath catches in my throat when the woman who tortured me enters the room. She remains on the other side of the glass, that damn clipboard still in her hand as she proceeds to ignore us.
I glance to see if it provokes anything from the asshole a few meters away, and to my surprise, he’s on his feet, hands tucked into his pockets as he glares at her.
If it weren’t for a slight ticking in his jaw and the way he subtly shifted his weight from foot to foot, I’d almost believe it was a stance he’s become accustomed to taking.
Well, standing at attention is not my plan of action. Instead, I hurry toward the glass.
“Finally! Can I go home now?” I know that asking is like throwing a feather at a brick wall and expecting it to crumble, but it’s better than nothing. Plus, it’s like Walker taught me,assume things will go in your favor, even when the chances are slim. I refuse to admit defeat.
With that in mind, I tap on the glass, forcing her attention to me as I beam with a certainty I’ve summoned from the depths of my soul. The grim, soulless stare I earn in return cuts through me.
“Miss Elodie Blackwood, your summons has been confirmed for six p.m. this evening.”
“And what time is it now?” I rush, refusing to let the concern of mysummonsget to me. It’s my way out, that’s the only way I can see it.
“Noon,” she states, and I nod as she continues to scribble on her clipboard.
Desperate to keep her talking, though I’m not entirely sure what information I hope to get out of her, I bounce on the balls of my feet, but before I can speak again, Mr. Asshole’s voice envelops me.
“What does that entail?”
“Access to the canteen and bathrooms has been granted. Guardianship has been approved to a Mr. Kael Forrester, who will also receive access to such luxuries,” she offers, not lifting her gaze.
I’m too caught on the fact that my cellmate’s eyes widen in surprise, and I slowly add two and two together to sum up the fact that he, indeed, is Mr. Kael Forrester.
It suits him.
Kael Forrester.
Aloof. Arrogant. Asshole.
And that’s just starting with the A’s.
B’s happily include bastard, brooding, and beautiful. Fuck. Would the C’s include cock? I need to stop.
The woman offers her back to us, placing a set of keys down on the closest countertop to the door before exiting without somuch as a goodbye. The second the door closes behind her, the glass drops, disappearing as though it never existed.
Kael prowls toward the keys, letting them clink and clang in his hand as he stares at them before bringing his closed-off gaze to me.
“You’re getting the death sentence.”
My heart thunders at how matter-of-factly he says it, but I’m quick to brush him off.
“No, I’m not,” I insist, hurrying toward the door beside him.
When he doesn’t automatically open it, I turn to glare at him and find he’s aiming his infamous raised brow at me. I’m already sick of how perfectly it portrays his attitude.
“I’m not getting the death sentence, Kael,” I reiterate, and his lip curls as though he’s going to take pride in knocking me down a peg or two. I think I deserve it, though, because I hate how much I like his name on my lips.
Ass.
“Guess what Jenkins got before they killed him?” He’s goading me, but I gulp down the nerves regardless.
I can see the truth in his eyes, feel it in my bones, and sense myself drowning in it. Looking away from him, I clear my throat. “I need to eat,” I state, nodding at the door, and he grunts.
