Fallen Queen

~ C H A P T E R T W E L V E ~

"You weren't taught shooting to commit murders, little bird," he growls under his breath, "You're more naive than I think."

"Good girls are the bad ones that never get caught, Wolfe," I growl back, "Don't be so full of yourself."

"What you did was reckless and immature," he says, as if he were a fucking monk chanting fucking hymns by the day.

"And what he did was carefully thought and rational, to you," I shake my head disappointedly, "Only a stupid person can feel a stupid person, and that man is grateful you're sticking up for him."

"It's not about sticking up for anybody!" He snarls, fuming at me, but I don't react the way he wants. I bare my teeth at him and watch the flames dance in his eyes.

"Keep talking, Wolfe," I send a vicious smile in his way, my eyes glittering with a mixture of anger and sarcasm, "I'm diagnosing you."

He turns his head slowly towards me, the black totally set in his eyes instead of the infuriatingly intriguing deep grey. Within a split second, before I can interpret his movements, he has pressed me to the wall of the elevator, his muscular arms caging me from both sides and his waist just inches away from me. It's such a cleverly unleashed tactic that if I move or struggle, I'll just get pressed up to him and the only thing between us would be the clothes. It's no use, anyways, trying to struggle- Wolfe gets mad very rarely, but when he does, there is no moving him, unless I'm angry too. Like I said, two can play this game.

"Where did you say he touched you, without your permission?"

His grey eyes reminded me of the blacksmith's fire.

It's in the eyes; always in the eyes. The answers, the interpretations, the stories, the secrets, the mysteries, the emotions, the questions- just a single flicker of the eye and the right reader can study you flawlessly. Eyes having their own vocabulary, what a beautiful language to learn.

His grey eyes had the bluish hue of sunlight upon slate, the blue symbolising the toppling, unstoppable waves of a stubborn ocean. The well set foundation in his eyes intrigued me, as if he was super concrete about his views.

"He groped my ass and snaked his arms around me," I say, without a single flicker in my confidence. Knowing clingy women, most of them would probably be shy and awkward about it, and knowing Wolfe, he'd try to waive my confidence first and make fun of my stuttering second- so I'd rather be as confident as he is about fucking a woman in the ass and not knocking her up.

"At times when you're angry, Crimson," he breathes down my face and feel the rich smell of Macallan on his breath and his spicy scented probably expensive as fuck perfume tickling my nostrils. His eyelashes are pretty long, I notice.

"Are you even listening to me?"

He catches me off guard but I do not give him the pleasure of knowing he did. I raise my head and put on a stubborn stance. "News flash, I don't care."

"Remember, your words can create gardens or fucking burn forests down, Achelois Crimson," he says as if we were discussing gaming strategies, "Choose 'em wisely."

"Good thing I love the heat that comes with forest fires, Wolfe Theodore," I pronounce each of the words slowly and roll them across my tongue, feeling the tang of confidence and stubbornness coat my tongue at the same time. "Strong women do not play the victim, nor do they act pitiful or point fingers. They fucking stand and they fucking deal."

"What you did wasn't called dealing, little bird," he whisper-growled, "Control that fire. Control those flames. You still feed your monsters."

"And they do my bidding, Wolfe," I snarl right back even before he's done, "THEY FUCKING DO. Understand that, whenever it feels like I'm out of control, understand that," I close my eyes and grit my teeth into a victorious smile, "I've clicked on 'Play'."