Page 98 of Emperor of Corruption
But the distance is good. It helps me clear my mind, and it gives me time to think and categorize my priorities.
The highest on the list is visiting my gynecologist and taking care of my condition. Equally as important is finishing the exposé and talking to Tommy, ensuring he’s prepped and ready to release it if the need arises.
I desperately hope the need won’t arise. I pray that the threat of the exposé and evidence of its existence will be enough to deter Killian, and Ithinkit will, but I have no way of knowing.
When I emerge from the bathroom, Killian sits on the bed, wearing a tuxedo complete with a perfect bowtie.
Next to him is a dress—anewdress, one I hadn’t selected from the options at our first hotel. It’s black and embellished with rhinestones—no, probably crystals, knowing Killian’s tastes.
“Ten minutes,” he tells me, running his eyes down my damp body.
I take the threat seriously, knowing that Killian will drag me out in only a towel just to prove a point. My reputation doesn’t mean to him what it means to me. He’s taken me out publicly before—I suspect to build a trail of witnesses to testify against me should I ever accuse him of anything. There are countless waiters who can attest to him treating me like a date, and me reciprocating, even if reluctantly.
With no other option, I take the dress into the bathroom and pull it on. It’s beautiful; off the shoulder, tight bodice, flowing skirt encrusted in jewels that mimic a night’s sky. I feel like I’m wearing the stars on my skin.
For all his faults—and there aremanyfaults—Killian knows good clothes. And food, and travel. He’s an expert in the realm of luxury.
“Stunning,” he murmurs when I emerge once more. “Albeit a little tired. Is the jetlag still clinging to you?”
No, the parasite you put inside me is sucking my vitality and energy.
As soon as I have the thought, guilt follows it. I might not be host to the cell-cluster for long, but there’s no sense in hating the idea of a baby just based on my relationship to its father.
“I guess so,” I say quietly. Killian rises, offering me his hand. Too tired to argue, I take it, and he folds it into the crook of his arm.
The drive to the restaurant is short. I stay quiet, gazing out the window, while Killian answers emails on his phone. I’m already looking forward to tumbling back into bed and going back to sleep.
Locke eyes me through the rearview mirror a few times too many, which would make me nervous if I wasn’t already lost to a mixture of chronic stress and exhaustion.
The restaurant is beautiful, romantic, and inherently intimate. Patrons are quieter here than they are in America, speaking to each other in soft tones. The floors are a rustic but even cobblestone, and the tables are covered in white cloths decorated with rose petals. An orchestra plays music in the corner of the room.
“It’s a tasting menu,” Killian explains as we settle at a table. “Any food preferences I should pass onto the head chef?” he asks me.
I slide him a sideways glance. “Are you on speaking terms with the chef here?”
“He’ll appreciate any visit I decide to grace him with,” Killian replies, radiating infuriating arrogance.
I shake my head. “No. Since when do you care about my food preferences?”
He pauses in lifting his glass of water to his lips. Just for a moment, but long enough to make me nervous. “I always have. You’ve been feeling queasy recently, so I figured I’d touch base. Do you not appreciate the courtesy?”
“I don’trequirethe courtesy. We’re parting ways on Monday.”
Killian’s only response to that is a smile that makes me nervous.
We eat dinner mostly in silence, only making slight segues of small talk here and there. I reply when he asks me something—mainly to avoid pissing him off, since I’ll be sharing a bed with him tonight—but I don’t engage or start any conversations.
I expect the silence to be tense, but it isn’t. In fact, it’s oddlycomfortable. My body seems to have grown accustomed to Killian’s presence, even while my mind reels and rebels.
When the dessert course arrives, Killian finally strikes up conversation again. “How was your day?”
The question, though innocuous, makes me nervous. I glance at him over the rim of my water glass. Since I never drink wine around Killian anymore, sticking to water shouldn’t raise his alarm bells.
He can’t know. It’s just a polite question. I got rid of all of the evidence.
“Fine,” I reply carefully.
Killian nods, spooning some of the decadent truffle cake. “Locke told me you stopped by a pharmacy. Are you feeling unwell?”
