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“Seventeen.”
“You don’t look seventeen.”
He laughs and either the sound has some black magic or I’m too drunk, or both. Because the tingles it causes escape the confines of my ears and flow in my blood.
“You don’t even know what I look like.” He taps his mask. “Maybe I’m a scarred monster underneath.”
I lift a shoulder. “I wouldn’t be surprised.”
“Is that so?”
“Yeah. You’d have to be a monster in one way or another to save me, watch as I’m about to get assaulted, then play a knight in black armor right at the end, just to indulge in violence. Oh, and you like Nietzsche. One has to have achieved a certain level of weirdness to be a Nietzsche fan.”
“First of all, I didn’t save you. I just pretended I didn’t see you in order to avoid complications. Joker amateur wasn’t about to assault you if you hadn’t provoked him. And I’m no knight, sweetheart. I only interfered to learn why you provoked him when you could’ve used a different approach. As for punching him, that wasn’t violence. Violence is being punched back. The act was a mere display of authority as a response to his audacity of questioning my orders. Oh, and I’m not a Nietzsche fan just because I read him.”
Damn it.
I’m out of my depth here. For the first time in forever, I feel like I can’t handle someone.
Definitely not when I’m drunk and my inhibitions seem to be disappearing to someplace I can’t reach.
I try to hide that, though. Playing nonchalance like it’s my favorite game. “Then who are you a fan of?”
“Myself.”
“Wow. Narcissus called and he wants his arrogance status back.”
He laughs, the sound equal measures easy and haunting in the silent darkness. And for some reason, I think I could listen to that tenor of his voice all night long.
“What if I decline to return it?”
I lift a shoulder. “Congratulations for your narcissistic status. You might need a reality check about how your achievements and talents hold little to no value, and using others doesn’t make you grandiose.”
“Then what does it make me?”
“Subhuman.”
“Subhumans are those who allow themselves to be used.”
“Let’s blame the victim, shall we? A tale as old as time.”
“A victim chooses to be a victim, whether by desperation or other circumstances. A lamb walking into the forest is well-prepared to be eaten.”
“No lamb wants to be eaten. They walked into the forest for the food they need in order to survive.”
“And the wolf eats the lamb, also to survive.”
“Your predator mentality is revolting.”
“And your blush is cute.” He motions at my neck with a smirk in his voice. “It’s visible even in the darkness.”
I touch my nape, feeling more heated than when he said the words. “Stop looking.”
“On the contrary, now is when I’ll keep looking. I’m bored and you’re interesting, so this should be a fun night, don’t you think?”
Before I can answer, the ground is pulled from beneath my feet for the second time today. But this time, I’m flung over a shoulder.
His shoulder.
