Page 36 of The Wicked
His features relaxed as he looked at the woman, who didn’t seem fazed by our exchange.
“Z, if—”
“It’s fine,” she told him. “I can take care of myself.”
“You’re sure?” he asked her, an undeniable concern shining in his eyes. “I can take care of it if you—”
“I’m sure, Devil. I can handle him.”
My insides clenched, and I looked away when I realized I wasn’t just looking at Elia and… her, I was staring. “Escort her up,” I said to one of the men who’d accompanied me downstairs before walking away, more troubled than I’d been before I came down.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Zahra
He was alone when the guard opened the door to the room where we’d discussed Dion Juan Pablo. It was the same as the first time I was here: way too clean with everything in its place.
When the door closed behind me without so much as agood luckfrom the guard, I turned my attention to Elio, who was placing an expensive bottle of red wine alongside two wineglasses on the table. He began to clean the two glasses.
I noticed he had discarded his jacket and tie; his sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, revealing the tattoos on his left forearm again, but unlike the first time, there was a small bandage on the inner part of his forearm. It had happened sometime between the meeting day and now.
I hoped it hurt like a bitch.
He glanced towards me the moment I started making my way to him.
“Don’t touch anything; just come forward,” he said, then looked away.
“What’s with the command?” I asked, now standing opposite him, with the minibar counter separating us. “I was alreadycomingwithout touching anything.”
Either he didn’t understand my statement’s double meaning, or he decided to ignore me, but his face showed no hint of discomfort.
“No one can tell with people like you,” he said, face void of emotion. “You think they’re going to go one direction, and they end up going the other.”
I eyed him, noting how he was entirely focused on the very unnecessary cleaning he was doing.
My gaze landed on his lips; they had that rich, attractive fullness that made me stare a little too long. His face was—perfect. His eyelashes were full and pretty long for a man who was supposed to be wicked. My stare trailed down to his neck, catching a glimpse of the tattoo there. I wanted to know—
“You’re staring again,” he said without looking up.
I placed my hand underneath my chin. “You’re a hot guy with a pretty face. I can’t help myself.”
He looked up at me, dark eyes filled with apparent surprise. I batted my lashes, giving him a sweet smile. He looked away again, dropping the glass, clearing his throat, and picking up the second glass. “Do you get off from annoying people around you?”
“No… but I could totally get off on that face of yours.”
His cleaning ceased, and our eyes locked again. “Stop,” he warned.
I smiled. “What? No one’s ever flirted with you before?”
“You’re making me uncomfortable.”
“Hmm.” I nodded. “Good uncomfortable or bad uncomfortable?”
He stared at me for a few seconds before shaking his head and returning to cleaning the glass, probably realizing he was going to get nowhere in an argument with me.
I got more comfortable. “You’ve been cleaning that glass for minutes now. Do you have OCD?”
He averted his gaze, cleaning delicately, while his rings clinked on the frame from time to time.
