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“Worth a try.” He kills the distance between us and places a hand at the small of my back close to my ass, probably trying to intimidate me with his physical presence.
“Can’t you tell me to walk without touching me?”
“But you feel so perfect in my hand. It’s a waste not to touch you.”
I shake my head and choose to drop it. If I go down that road, it’ll only get worse, and it’s just not a battle worth pursuing.
He promenades me around the war-like foyer as if he’s showing his most prized possessions. He stops by the pale pink sofa. “This is where the ghost sits. It’s probably watching us as we speak and putting a curse on you.”
“Why wouldn’t it put it on you instead?”
“Maybe it already did and I’m a product of its curse that’s tasked with devouring you alive and sucking you dry.”
“Save it.” I side-eye him. “I don’t believe in ghosts.”
“Oh? Why not?”
“Real monsters are scarier and a lot more common than invisible paranormal creatures.”
“Interesting. Is one of those monsters the reason why you don’t talk?”
I freeze and throw him a questioning look.
“What? You thought I planned your demise without looking into your past?”
I purse my lips. What does the bastard know? He couldn’t have possibly dug up much since my parents are powerful enough to seal that part of my life.
He’s bluffing. He has to be.
Landon seems completely oblivious to my reaction as he leads me down a long corridor. What must’ve once looked like flowery wallpaper is nothing more than a faded beige vinyl now.
“It’s not that you’re a mute, it’s that you choose not to speak. I believe selective mute is the correct term. If you can speak, let me hear your voice.”
I elbow his side, forcing him to loosen his grip on my back, then sign, “What do you know about my life? What makes you think I can speak or that I even want to? And just so you know, if I do happen to talk—which isn’t possible by any stretch of the imagination, by the way—I’ll never let you hear it, asshole.”
“Never say never, little muse.”
“I’m not little. I happen to be only five years younger than you.”
“Aaaand your obsession with me continues.” He smiles, but there’s no amusement this time. Just the stark shadow of his calculation. “Tell me, what was the incident that took your voice away at eight years old? Your parents seem to have put a lot of effort into erasing it from everyone’s memories.”
I internally release a breath. So even Landon and his conniving ways haven’t managed to get any information. For the first time, I’m thankful to be a mafia princess and in possession of the Bratva’s and, most importantly, my parents’ protection.
“Ever wondered if it’s hidden because it’s none of your business?” I smile with enough sweetness to give diabetes a run for its money.
“I can get that information anyway, even if it takes a bit longer than I’d like it to. So how about you tell me yourself now and save us both the time and effort?”
“I’d like to see you try.”
His grin turns into one of demonic proportions. It’s like I provoked the decadent side of him that definitely gets off on the mention of a challenge. Just like Bran said.
He nudges me forward again until we arrive at another shabby door that he shoves open, and then he pushes me inside.
I stop near the entrance, my eyes adjusting to the darkness of the room. It’s a studio, I realize. Half-finished statues adorn the walls, some of them covered by white sheets. In the middle, there’s a chair and a workstation with equipment methodically aligned in perfectly horizontal rows. Double glass doors hint at a balcony on the opposite side that looks creepy.
Still, this room is by far the cleanest and newest in the house. The stained-glass windows are tinted with church-like paintings of some guys who are probably important, but I can’t name them to save my life.
The colorful lights cast a rainbow glow on the unfinished, disfigured statues. Some of them have faces and the others are missing features or even a whole body. Others are only torsos without a face.
