“Nothing,” I hiss, annoyed all over. My cell phone bings with a notification that the meeting request I put in has been accepted. My body tingles from head to toe, and I know my skin is crackling with lightning.
“Damn. Something’s got you hot and bothered.”
“I’m late for a meeting.”
“With who?” he asks as I stand.
“Someone who’s going to get what they deserve.” I pause, glance down at him sitting there smiling while my blood boils in my veins. “Thank you for the coffee. You look like a giant cotton candy.”
He just laughs as I stomp away. “When you’re mad, you look like a grape.”
Chapter Eighteen
Monika
Darius’s office is way smaller than I thought it would be. That should be comforting, but it isn’t. Somehow, the size of the room makes the whole space feel twice as intimidating. It feels like a prison. The ceiling is low. The gray walls are covered in dark-gray shelving. Open shelves decorate the upper half of each wall and showcase books and carefully placed bobbles. Closed shelves decorate the lower half of each wall.
A massive concrete desk stretches nearly all the way across the room. A computer sits on it, but where a keyboard should be are two sheets of paper, one of which is decorated with black text I can’t read from here, the other of which looks like it might be a photograph laid upside down.
Darius sits behind his desk, a blue monster with white horns that shoot up taller than I stand. He’s showered and shaved but still shirtless. Not that I’m complaining. I’d say if I did have one complaint—and I do—it would be that his fingers are steepled and pressed against his lips and he’s glaring at me like he just found out I killed his childhood hamster.
“I’m a little surprised you called a meeting and didn’t just break into my apartment again.” What’s more surprising was that he let me postpone it. The original meeting request came in for yesterday, but Iaccidentally slept through it and had to ask him to reschedule for the next morning. He did without complaint.
He doesn’t respond. Hmm. The topic of the meeting wasn’t provided in the calendar invite, so I thought playful banter might have been on the agenda, but I guess not.
His eyes bleed a darker and darker purple the longer I stand there. I’m wearing normal human clothes again after spending all day yesterday naked in bed, nursing my aches. I saw another calendar invite pop up for me after this one, scheduling me to meet with Emily and another doctor named Viola, who’s meant to give me a pap. Even though I haven’t had that visit yet—it’s scheduled for tomorrow—I can’t deny that I’m feeling a little hopeful Darius might be up for another session later ... or now ... if this meeting is a sex workshop. I thought it might be when I got the invite. Now I’m feeling less sure. He looks like he’s going to eat me. And not in the fun way.
My hands are empty, making me wish I lived in the era of briefcases just to give myself something to hold. Even worse, there isn’t anywhere for me to sit. The chair Darius sits in is the only one in the room.
I glance around. Darius’s eyes are so bright, flashing blue and purple and white. “Why are you here, Ms. Neumann?”
I swallow, but there’s not a doubt in my mind he can hear me lick my lips. “You called for this meeting, Darius.”
His eyes burn. His horns crackle with electricity. “And why did I call for this meeting?”
“I’m not really sure anymore ...”
His palm slaps down onto the desk so loudly I jump. He pushes one of the papers toward me ever so slightly, prompting me to edge forward and take a look.
I creep toward his desk and see a familiar still from the video I took at the South Korean Embassy printed on the paper. It’s from his socials, the one of Cynthia’s face looking the picture of happiness. The less-than-crisp shot gives me bubble guts while simultaneously making me want to tear out her hair.
“Is this what you saw happen the night of the gala?” he asks me in a voice that’s way too calm.
I meet his gaze. It’s bright purple again, bringing out the menace in his monstrous face. I tuck my hair behind my ear, glad I had time this morning to rewash and dry it. He focuses too intently on the movement of my hand as I bring it down to my stomach, then shove it into my sweater pockets. I’m wearing leggings and a low-cut, formfitting black V-neck. I didn’t want it to totally look like I was here for the D, so last minute I threw a chunky pink sweater over all of it. I’m suddenly regretting not having worn my bulletproofPressvest from our last mission. I don’t look professional, and I don’t look equipped for war either.
I scratch my neck with my other hand and roll out one ankle. I’m wearing slip-on shoes that I hope to hell he doesn’t notice are actual house slippers. “Um ... no. Not all of it.”
“What did you see?”
“I saw you holding Cynthia in a hug first, except you were electrocuting her, I think.”
“And did you capture that on video?”
I nod.
He slams his hand down on top of the paper again and crumples it into his fist. “Then why did my PR team post this shit?”
“It’s ...” It’s obvious. The alternative would make him look like a psycho killer. This makes him look like a swooning romantic. “ ... for your image, you know. Your brand. As Taranis. She makes you look good here ...”
