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Malachi is grinning now, and it softens his harsh look. He’s attractive, in his tailored black on black suit. He’s maybe six foot two, an inch or two shorter than Ambrose. If I’d never met Ambrose, I might think Malachi is the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen. A demon from the dark of hell, promising sinful delights.
“I have business to attend to this evening,” Ambrose states, ignoring my jibe. A wicked thought occurs and I give him a sweet-as-cherry-pie smile.
“Of course,” I say, just as sweetly, before turning my attention pointedly to Malachi. I take a few steps closer to the pair, my hips swaying. I have moves when I want to use them. “Maybe Malachi can entertain me tonight?” I don’t look at Ambrose even though his gaze is stabbing into me like daggers. “I’ve been so lonely lately.”
Just before I step around Ambrose, a vice grip digs into my bicep. I look at where Ambrose grips me and make sure he can see me roll my eyes. I don’t try to tug away from him, knowing all too well he’ll let me go when he decides to and not a moment sooner. I meet his gaze, and the entire world narrows down to the space between us as he lowers his face to mine. A cruelty I’ve never seen snarls his lips and the red and gold clash violently in his eyes that a moment before were ice cold. Now they burn, flay my skin and burrow down to boil my blood.
I should be the little lamb he called me and cower before the dangerous monster.
I don’t, though. I welcome the heat, letting it bellow within me until I burn just as hot.
“Do not test me, Eloise.” Ambrose’s voice is fire and ice, and pure threat. “You will never win that fight.”
Every sense of self-preservation burns away and I raise an eyebrow like he’s so fond of doing. “Are you sure about that?”
The snarl that rips from him hisses through the air like paper ripping, harsh and loud but I don’t flinch. I push on, stepping closer to him and never losing his gaze.
“You want to know what I think?”
We must look ridiculous. I’m all of five feet two inches, the top of my head barely coming up to his pectoral muscles, and I’ve refused to wear any of the clothes he’s provided. I’m in my faded leggings with a hole in the thigh, a too big knit yellow cardigan, and a graphic tee with a bear drinking coffee that says Bear Necessities. My black hair is in the same messy bun it’s been in for the last week. I’ve already ditched wearing bras too, not seeing the point with how empty the house always seems to be. Basically, I look like the hot mess freelancer who gives no fucks and prefers comfort over fashion.
Ambrose, on the other hand, is the complete opposite. Despite him being from the Barrows, and me from Topside, he’s the one that oozes wealth and power. He’s the one who looks like he belongs in the sunny, modern city that prizes itself on its aesthetic, and I look like I should be stuck in crappy, cheap apartments rife with drugs and violence.
When Ambrose says nothing, I push further. I poke him in the middle of his hard chest. “I think you are all talk.” I laugh, a bit because of my own audacity and the rest because of how Ambrose’s eyes widen the smallest amount before his brows narrow with renewed irritation.
Now I pull away from him, and he lets me go with a pointed release of his hand. I move past him and Malachi, whose face is once again undecipherable and stoic. As I reach the landing, I look over my shoulder at Ambrose, and toss out, “Go take care of this business of yours. You’re looking peckish.”
I walked the rest of the way to the bedroom—the one he hasn’t entered while I’m in there since that morning—with my head held high.
I kick the door closed behind me, locking it out of sheer pettiness, and set my laptop on the dresser before making my way to my plants. I still haven’t figured out who brought them in while I was asleep. Maybe it was Ambrose, but I doubt it at this point. More likely it was Joséphine or Ashe. Regardless, they’d also brought in a small watering can as if they knew I’d prefer to tend to them myself. Hooking my finger under the thin handle, I fill it in the bathroom before beginning to water them.
I trail my fingers across the large leaves of the Monstera as I let my mind empty as much as I’ve ever managed by myself. Testing the soil of each one before pouring water in their pots, I move from Monsteras to my Devil’s Ivy and ferns. They’re flourishing here in the Barrows, to my surprise.
“I almost thought it’d be the same for me, Charline,” I murmur as I run my fingers through the delicate, evergreen fronds of the fern. Deidre always teases me for naming my plants and then talking to them, but I swear it helps them grow. And they’re great confidants when I need them. “I guess I was just caught up in the rush that Ambrose gave me, you know?”
I move on to Sandy, a string of pearls succulent that I’ve had for three years. The muted green color of the plant fits perfectly in the aesthetic of the room. I let a few drops of water fall into the soil in her pot before returning the can to its place and go back to stand between my plants, looking out the window. I don’t want to look behind me, at a room that is Ambrose’s, or at the bed that I remember waking up in his arms in.
“Am I just a stupid girl for being attracted to him?” My plants never answer, but that’s okay. “He must have women throw themselves at his feet all the time. He had a woman to feed from before. Did he bring her here too?”
The sun is setting over the city, and it’s beautiful. Unlike Newgate, where tall buildings are monoliths of reflective glass, straight uniform lines and the comfortable appearance of an unburdened life, the Barrows has personality. The buildings are old, like the true name of the city suggests. When Oldgate was built, it was a small port town at first. Over decades, buildings were designed by whomever commissioned them, meaning nothing looked uniform or similar. It was a chaotic kaleidoscope of architectural styles, with winding streets and pocket neighborhoods. The residents didn’t seem to particularly care about preserving the history of the city, but nor did they seek to erase it like Newgate had.
A terrible idea makes me smile and I rush into the wardrobe before I can talk sense into myself. I know it’s stupid, but if I stay in this house for another minute, I’m going to scream. Embracing my anger at Ambrose, I yank through the clothes I’ve been ignoring. Dresses land on the floor in heaps as I hold up different ones to me in the mirror at the end of the wardrobe and discard them until I find the perfect one. Tugging it on, I don’t even hesitate to lose my panties when the dress makes it clear there’s no way of hiding the lines of even a thong. My blood is humming with excitement as I sit on the tufted bench where Ambrose put my shoes on for me.
Scowling, I abandon the strappy fuck-me heels I love and wore that night and opt for boots I would have never dared to wear before.
Fuck being a little lamb, though, I think as I tug up the black velvet boots on up over my knees. They’re wedge heels, and when I walk up to the mirror, I can’t help but feel a bit attracted to myself. Thick thighs may save lives, but finding a pair of thigh-high boots that don’t roll down or squeeze my thighs enough to give me muffin tops is like trying to find a unicorn. Usually girls with curves like me have to settle for one or the other. These, though?
These are fucking sexy as hell, and make me want to stroke my own thighs without shame. And the dress? Deidre would be proud of me. In fact, I yank out my hair from the tie and finger comb the black locks until they look more sultry-messy than lazy-messy. A couple of bobby pins, bold maroon lipstick, and mascara later, and I’m back in front of the mirror, phone in hand with the camera pulled up.
After a few snaps from different angles, I send the best ones to Deidre. Looking at the phone, I’m giddy. The boots are black, and combined with the obscenely short silver dress, I look ready to make men fall to their knees. It’s a silver, glittery halter top dress with the neckline sweeping down low enough that I’ll need to make sure I don’t bend over too far or I’ll lose a boob. It drapes my curves and ends just a couple inches above the top of my boots, giving a sexy tease of skin. Even better, there’s a slit that goes all the way up past my hip, hence my lack of panties. It’s like someone took a sexy nightgown, dumped it in silver glitter and called it clubwear.
I figure if Ambrose didn’t want me to wear something like this, he shouldn’t have put it in the closet.
And the best part? I look and feel like a boss bitch.
No, a goddamn queen.
My phone beeps and I jump, my heart leaping into my throat as if Ambrose somehow has figured out my plans and is condemning me. It’s Deidre, though, with a response that is her normal self.
