Page 70 of Dishonored

Aria’s surprise quickly melted into anger as she glanced between him at her window, and the restaurant. “What do you want?”

“Oh, we can’t talk now?”

“I don’t—”

“You didn’t really expect to leave me at the cemetery with that little nugget about killing your father, and then think I wouldn’t want to know more, did you?”

She turned her head, and kept her eyes on the stretch of road and walkway in her windshield. Even with Caesar now leaning against the car, she all out refused to even look at him. Any other time, and he might have been fucking offended.

Today, he just found it amusing.

“Leave,” Aria murmured. “It’s the only warning I can give you.”

“Can’t do that, actually. Sorry.”

She sighed, and glanced down at her lap. “What do you want?”

Caesar reached inside the window, and fingered the small golden tassel on the end of the scarf wrapped around her pretty neck. “This is new—I think I like your throat naked more, though.”

As quickly as he had touched her, Aria was quick to slap his hand away. Her gaze burned when it turned on him again—hateful and bitter in a blink.

“Don’t.”

Caesar put his hands up in mock surrender. “My apologies. I can’t touch you now that your husband is back in town, or what?”

All that fight and fire seemed to drain out of the woman in a breath. With nothing more than a simple question from him, and she reverted back to the pretty little doll staring out the window. A doll with no expression, no emotion, and probably no fucking brain.

It irked him.

Pissed him off.

This was not the woman who had tricked him—the woman who had made his dick as hard as steel just as easily as she had irritated him. And at the same goddamn time, too. No, this wasn’t that woman, and he had no intention of dealing with this fucking shell of her, either.

This was not what he wanted at all.

He wanted to fuck with her.

Like she had fucked with him.

Fine.

Then, he would try for something a little more pointed if this wasn’t getting a reaction out of her.

“That question I asked about,” Caesar said.

“You really need to go,” she deadpanned.

“Nah, I’m good.” Caesar kneeled down a bit to rest his arms along the window ledge of the door, and stared straight at Aria even though she refused to look at him. “That question—was it for him, your husband, I mean?”

“Was what for him?”

“Killing your father. I didn’t forget what you told me, after all. So, if I am to assume you manipulated me in to doing that for whatever reason—since apparently nothing I do is because I actually chose to do it when it comes to you—then why? I figured … it must have been for him. It’s Raffe, right?”

She stiffened at her husband’s name.

Maybe she didn’t like Caesar saying it.

So, he did it again.