I jump away. “Stop doing that.”
“Doing what?”
“Whispering in my ear from behind like a creep.”
“How else will I have you tremble against me? I love your innocent reactions that are in clear contradiction with your bad-girl image. Heads-up, I will provoke it whenever I get the chance. Unless…” he trails off and tilts his head. “You’re down for getting on your knees and closing those lips around my cock?”
“No.”
“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.
“I thought you had a studio in the Elites’ mansion that’s protected by lock and key.”
“Take it easy on your obsession with me.”
My face heats, but I sign, “I only found that out in my attempts to sabotage you.”
“An obsession is still an obsession, no matter the reason. The fact that you’re stumbling to find an excuse is enough indication of the depth of your cute obsession. To answer your question, this is my second art studio, the third if we count the one at uni, but that one’s only for show since it’s shared with other students.”
“And this one?” I sign, then turn to the miserable statues. I don’t know why I feel sorry that they’ve been abandoned.
“This one is for the boring subjects that didn’t make the cut. I have a theory I want to prove.”
I turn to him with a questioning gaze, but my insides instantly knot into thick dread when my eyes lock with his.
Dark energy swirls in their depths, promising a taste of both danger and regret.
“Stand here for me and remain still. Like last night.”
“Why would I do that?”
“For the same reason you came here with me. To protect your precious family.”
I snarl and he merely smiles, then pats the top of my head as if I’m a pet. “Be good and no drastic measures will be taken.”
He walks to a half-faced statue and strokes the unfinished part with careful fingers, as if he doesn’t want to hurt a literal statue’s feelings. But why do I feel like, if given the chance, Landon wouldn’t hesitate to erase that statue as if it never existed?
After careful inspection, he lifts it effortlessly. Or more like, he makes it look easy. I can see his biceps flexing as a translation of his smashing power.
Landon might appear lean and definitely has fewer muscles than, say, Nikolai or Jeremy, but he’s still strong.
He deposits the statue on what looks like a sack of sand and sits on the chair opposite it.
He casts me a glance, throws a flirtatious wink, and then pulls out a cigarette and slides it to the corner of his lips. As he lights it, he fetches one of the countless tools and tosses it from one hand to the other as if testing its weight.
He puts it right back and retrieves another one that looks exactly the same to me, tosses it between his hands again, then inhales the smoke and releases a heavy cloud in the air.
I’ve never cared for the smell of cigarettes or smokers in general, but Landon makes it look hotter than it should be. It’s the blasé attitude and the confidence of a god that drips from his every movement.
With the cigarette hanging from his lips, he again strokes the statue, which I notice has generous breasts. He runs his fingers along the slope and then taps the nipple once.
Twice.
My body burns with unfamiliar scorching fire. His hand slides to her throat and I can feel the choker tightening around my own neck as if it’s his fingers.
What the hell?
His eyes flash to me and I stand still, scared to even breathe properly. The last thing I need is for Landon to think I find him attractive in any sense. He’s already conceited beyond belief.
“There. You’re such a good little muse.” His hand is still stroking and groping the statue as if it’s his lover.
“I’m just doing this out of necessity.”
“Are those words directed at me or yourself?”