Her pride was strong enough to make her defy common sense.
"Why do you want to walk?" I asked, my voice back to its flat unapproachable nature.
"Because I don't like being trapped in here."
"You are trapped." I said with a matter of fact expression.
She glared at me. "You're unbearable."
"You're dramatic."
She gasped. "Take that back."
"No?"
She has guts.
She clenched her fists. "You're the one who kidnapped me!"
"I didn't kidnap you," I corrected. "I retrieved you."
"That's kidnapping!"
"It's relocating someone for strategic purposes."
"You're insane."
"And you're loud."
Her jaw dropped. Then she threw the pillow beside her at me. I caught it with one hand without even blinking.
She froze, and I raised a brow.
Her lips pressed into a line. "I hate you."
"Yes, you do but no, you don't."
"I do."
"You don't." I stared at my gloved hand and back at her. "Not like I care but you barely know me for that hate to be real."
"You're annoying."
"That," I said, tossing the pillow back beside her, "I'll accept."
She glared at me with all the fiery indignation of a teenager who had never been told no in her life. At least not in a way that mattered.
I stood.
She went still.
Her gaze lifted up… up… up as I towered over her. For a moment, her breath hitched. She hid it fast, but not fast enough.
I reached out.
Her body tensed.
But I didn't touch her face, her shoulders, or the bruise staining her cheek. I touched the loose strand of hair still tangled in her fingers.
"You shouldn't play with it," I murmured.
She sucked in a tiny breath. "Why?"
Another thing I noticed was her desire to feed her curiosity. Holy Cross!
"It makes you look nervous."
"I'm not nervous."
"You are."
"Stop saying that."
"You're still trembling."
"I SAID STOP—"
Her voice cracked, just barely but I heard it.
The waterfall behind us filled the silence, cascading gently over polished stone. Her chest rose and fell, faster now, her eyelashes fluttering.
She was still trying to act strong, still trying to act unaffected, and still trying to pretend she had not been terrified out of her mind earlier.
"Nara."
"No," she said quickly, cutting me off. "Don't say anything."
"You need to rest."
"I need air."
"The halls aren't safe."
"You killed the only one who tried anything."
My jaw tightened.
She blinked slowly, openly studying my reaction. "You don't regret it," she said softly. "Do you?"
"No."
"Why not?"
I didn't answer.
Her lips parted, eyes widening in a slow, dawning realization. "You… would do it again."
Silence fell between us. A long, heavy one.
Then, I replied. "Yes."
She inhaled sharply, her fingers curling around the fabric of her pants. "We barely know each other," she whispered.
"I know enough."
"You don't know anything," she insisted. "You don't know why I act the way I act. You don't know what kind of father I have. You don't know what I've been through—"
"I know you're eighteen," I cut in.
She froze.
"And I know your father would wants you dead if you break a rule. He loves you but you won't ruin his mapped out plan to overtake."
Her breath stopped completely.
Her eyes widened, fear, confusion, denial, and everything crashing at once.
"You're lying," she whispered.
"No."
Her hand shot to her mouth. "Stop talking."
"Your father would stop seeing you as valuable the moment you disobey him. The moment you try to run, he doesn't want you back. He wants the problem gone."
"Stop talking."
Her voice broke this time.
She turned away from me. Her shoulders curled in. I shouldn't have said those words but I was right, and she needed to be reminded.
Finally, she looked very much like a child, while trying desperately not to cry.
I exhaled slowly.
This was why she frustrated me. She was young enough to think the world wasn't vicious. She was stubborn enough to believe she was untouchable. And she was innocent enough to think evil looked like monsters instead of the men she trusted.
But mostly because she had no idea the danger she was in.
"Look at me."
"No."
"Nara."
"NO."
A beat of silence.
Then, finally, she dragged her gaze back to mine, her eyes shining, jaw clenched, and cheeks flushed.
"What do you want from me?" she whispered.
"Nothing."
She stared.
I continued, voice steady as steel. "You want to walk?"
"Yes."
"Then clean up."
She blinked, thrown by the sudden shift.
"What?"
"Clean up," I repeated. "You look like you've been in a fight."
"I was in a fight!"
"Exactly," I said dryly. "Fix yourself. Then I'll take you."
"You will?"
"Yes."
She hesitated, then lifted her chin with a spark of the entitled rudeness I'd already begun to recognize.
"I'm not thanking you," she declared.
"I didn't ask you to."
"Good."
We stared at each other. Neither of us moved nor breathed.
Then she pushed herself off the couch, tossed her hair dramatically, and said with the imperious tone of a spoiled heiress. "I'm still not scared of you."
I let a soft hum slip from my throat. "Keep telling yourself that."
She huffed.
I watched her walk toward the bathroom, still shaking a little, still furious, and still pretending she was fine.
"Also, I'll get you back everything you'll need here until your father negotiates. Without Internet access," I said behind her.
She turned sharply, and shot me a glare. Not acknowledging her, I leaned back in the couch, and dropped an arm over my eyes, as I calculated a thousand possible ways to make everything work.