Page 98 of Flawed

She blinks hard. Her eyes glisten, but she lifts her chin in the air.

I trace my thumb over her lips. She inhales sharply, keeping her glare pinned on me. Resisting the urge to kiss her, I soften my tone, repeating, "It's not safe for you to be here. Now, let's go."

Before she can respond, I guide her down the steps and into the parking garage. I stay close to the edge until we get to my silver Mazzanti Evantra Millecavalli. I open the passenger door.

She hesitates.

"Get in, Chanel," I demand.

She closes her eyes a moment then caves.

I shut the door, get into the driver's side, and turn on the engine. We say nothing as I maneuver the car out of the garage and through the city streets. Instead of speeding through town like I normally do, I follow the speed limit and stop at all the traffic lights.

Maybe it's to extend our time together. Perhaps it's to ensure she stays safe and isn't in harm's way. It may be a combination of the two, but a fierce debate about what I'm doing fills my head.

I promised her I'd stay away. She made me vow that if I ever ran into her, I'd leave her alone and walk the other way. Yet, that was an oath taken on a night that's haunted me for ten years.

I brake at a stoplight and finally glance over.

She grips her hands tight in her lap. Her green minidress only covers a few inches of her thigh. She catches me ogling her legs, shooting me a look of death.

"Where do you live?" I ask her.

She snaps, "None of your business."

"Is that why you disappeared into thin air? To avoid me?" I interrogate.

She holds her breath, staring at me.

Not thinking about the consequences, I blurt out, "Did you think I'd forget about you? That I would be able to not come back to check on you and make sure you were okay?"

She leans her head back against the headrest and closes her eyes.

I pick up her hand and kiss the back of it. "Stellina."

She opens her eyes and gives me a sad expression, stating, "It's green."

I tear my gaze off her but keep her hand in mine and veer onto the expressway. I drive several miles and take the exit ramp.

"Luca, where are we going?" she inquires.

"My place," I state without hesitation.

She tugs her hand out of mine. "I'm not going to your place."

I lock eyes with her, challenging, "So you want to go to your place?"

"No!"

"Then we're going to mine."

"Luca—"

"We need to talk, Chanel," I sternly insist.

"About what?"

"Everything."

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