No Sanctuary For Old Men [18+] |Negan| ✔️ Complete

XIII • The Interview

When cerulean eyes met molten amber, Daphne felt drunk on him. The combination of adrenaline and his utter maleness was heady, and she took in his slicked dark hair and salt and pepper beard with a ragged breath. He smelled like leather and cigars and paradise and she wanted to squirm from the heat.

His gaze was piercing atop defined cheekbones. It felt like he was searching within her very mind, and she'd never felt so examined in her entire life.

His lips suddenly curled into an amused smirk, and time started moving again.

"Hell, aren't you just the sweetest fuckin' slice of apple pie," Negan drawled, and just like that, Daphne felt her confidence slam back into her like a jackhammer.

He'd tried to catch her unprepared, but here she was, a woman who'd built such a reputation that King Shit himself couldn't wait two weeks to meet her. She had her ace in the hole and now all she had to do was nail this interview.

"I prefer strawberry," her eyes twinkled with deviousness and he took a step back, putting a hand over his stomach as he let out a laugh.

His other hand fell from his shoulder, bringing a deadly barbed wire wrapped baseball bat with it. Daphne didn't flinch, nor look down at it, but caught the gleam of metal and realized that's what he'd been swinging around earlier.

Negan seemed impressed by her lack of intimidation, and stood up to his full height, bringing the weapon up against his chest. She noticed he was wearing a single leather fingerless glove on his right hand, and almost laughed at the impracticality of it. Men did silly things for fashion, too.

"This here's Lucille," he said, running a finger along the bare bulb end of the bat. "My best bitch. She's real fuckin' good at bashing heads." He leaned forward at the waist, bending until his face was level with hers and grinned. "So, what are you good at, sweetheart?" The endearment fell from his mouth in a husky vibrato.

She smiled wryly. "Lots of things."

"That's what every asshole says." Negan playfully narrowed his eyes. "Shit, maybe you want to be a wife," he speculated, hunger in his gaze. "Why don't you get back on your fuckin' knees and show me what you're really good at?"

Daphne took in his leer and realized that this was her moment to make an impression.

So she punched him.

There was a collective gasp as his head snapped to the side, but not a move was made as he turned his perfect face back to her, eyes maniacal with glee.

He smirked, shifting his weight into a relaxed lean. "I am about fifty percent more into you now." He flexed his jaw. "Well, we can add punching to your ever-fucking-growing list of skills. What are you after then, seamstress? You want to be a Savior? Go out on supply runs and frolic in the fields with one of my lieutenants?"

Daphne put her punching hand delicately on one hip. "No, I don't want to work for them. I want to work for you."

"Everyone fucking works for me." Negan spread his arms, casting the end of the decorated bat over his congregation. "But you're saying you want to skip the line and join the upper ranks, aren't you, strawberry?"

She nodded, and didn't miss the bewildered glance Arat was giving her in her periphery.

He shrugged. "That's just a damned shame," he said, but didn't seem too broken up about it. "I don't have any fuckin' openings for another lieutenant."

"You will," Daphne promised, and turned to Dwight. His face was a mask of curiosity, but realization rippled when she continued to speak. "Whatcha got in your pocket there, Scarface?"