WICKED | WILLIAM FRANKLYN-MILLER

⟶ 2 | DON'T SCREAM

"It's in your best interest not to fight me, Miss Lovey," he said, catching the remote in his hand like before, "my habits may overbear my mind if you continue."

Habits. At his words, my gaze flickered to the scar beneath his eyes. When I saw it on the train, I knew there was something irregular about it. He was no stranger to violence.

"Besides," he continued, "I know you're not a fighter."

I scoffed. "You don't know anything about me."

"With all due respect, I know everything about you."

I didn't respond.

He seemed to take my shocked silence as an opening for continuation, because he slowly began to step towards me. I reached for the binder this time. The phone for the lobby desk was sitting beside the television, but I didn't know the numbers. I was stuck.

"I know why you're in Paris," the man said, nearing even closer, "I know Percy Kent arranged for this room, and I also know you're expecting to be engaged by the time you go back to London. Congratulations, I suppose."

"You're a filthy stalker." I scoffed in disgust.

"Not intentionally. It's my job to know everything about you."

"That still makes you a filthy stalker."

He stopped in front of me, eyes flickering down towards the binder in my hand. I debated swatting it at him, but he didn't give me time to. Extending his arm, he plucked it from my grasp, tossing it onto the bed beside us.

He stood there, only looking at me. He didn't touch me. He didn't leave my eyes. I could only sense the gears turning in his mind as he lowered his voice to speak once more.

"Believe me, Miss Lovey," he said thinly, almost spitefully. "I don't want to be here any more than you do."

I couldn't step back. I was already against the wall. "Then why are you?"

"My job requires me to."

"And what is your job, exactly?" I lined my words with extra spite.

He didn't budge from my temper. I scanned his—outlandishly attractive, as I am now seeing from this close—face, noticing his dull expression. It was shielded from all aspects of emotion. Why are all the pretty men so mean?

"To be frank," he said slowly, "I'm here to kill the people who are trying to kill you."

I scanned his face for jest. His words were pathetically phrased, and the idea behind it was ridiculous. Is his job in the comedy department? He sounds like a clown. I came to Paris to be engaged. I didn't come here to be harrassed in the privacy of my own room, invaded by a stranger, and have my life seemingly stalked.

I narrowed my eyes, clenching my teeth. "Who the hell would be trying to kill me?"

The man's eyes darkened. He seemed unamused by my ignorance. My first guess would be that he was the one who wanted to kill me, but that clearly wasn't the case. I noticed his eyes flicker towards my clenched fist, stepping back voluntarily. A man like him wasn't scared of a punch—he just didn't want to touch me.

"You'd be surprised," he said sharply.

I narrowed my eyes into slits. "Surprise me, then."

"Are you usually this stubborn?"

"Are you usually this stupid?" I hissed, "read the room, Psycho, I'm not the one who broke into someone's room."

The lid of his left eye twitched when I called him that. Psycho, my brain taunted once more. Taking a step away from me, he clicked his tongue, turning towards the other end of the room.