Page 27 of Beautiful Forever
Syn ducks into the library, me close on her heels. The guy behind the reception desk looks up when I walk in, then goes back to the book he was reading. I hold back as Syn presses the button to summon the elevator, the number on the digital display counting down to ground level, and as soon as the doors whoosh open, I’m right behind her.
I feel, more than see, the tension that overtakes her when the doors close, sealing us inside the lift. Her gardenia scent wraps around me, and I want to know if it’s something she uses like perfume or soap, or if it’s just her. People carry a natural musk unique to only them, and I can usually tell who someone is without ever seeing them. Mama smelled like vanilla. Aleksei has hints of cinnamon. Tristan carries a more woodsy fragrance, similar to cedar. I have no clue what I smell like.
“Floor?” I casually ask. I hadn’t planned on approaching her yet, but here we are because my dumb ass decided it wanted to talk to her.
Like a trapped bird in a cage, Syn plasters herself against the wall, tucking her bag behind her. Her reaction to me is visceral, and I know right away that Tristan has warned her about me because she looks scared out of her mind.Fucking Tristan.
“Five, please,” she says with a soft, lyrical cadence that carries a whisper of a Southern drawl.
Her calm voice is in direct opposition with how her hands frantically fumble with the zipper to the front pouch of her bag. If she’s trying to be discreet, she’s failing big time.
Deciding to play the bogeyman she thinks I am, I press the button for five, then rest my shoulder against the metal operating panel. “You’re the first girl I’ve ever seen Constantine with. I wonder what makes you so special.”
Within the confines of the small space, my voice booms louder than intended, and she flinches, her hands moving more urgently as she searches her bag for something, probably pepper spray.
“I’m sorry. Have we met?” she asks.
Unnerved by her wide-eyed blue stare because her goddamn eyes are a ghost’s, I focus on the rapid flutter of the pulse point on the side of her neck. “Aleksander Stepanoff. I’m an…acquaintance of your boyfriend.”
I’m fishing for information, and I don’t like it when she doesn’t refute my assumption. Her nervousness is starting to fluster me, so I snatch her bag from her grasp to make her stop.
“Give that back,” she snaps.
Spotting her phone inside the front pocket, I zip it up and transfer her bag to my other hand to prevent her from retrieving it. Her eyes sweep down the tattoos covering my arms to the ones inked on my hands where the words ANGEL and DEVIL are written across the upper knuckles of each finger, and I feel her visual perusal as if she were physically touching me.
My short time with Synthia Carmichael comes to an end when the elevator jars to a stop, and the doors open.
I hold my arm out. “After you.”
She bristles like a pissed-off cat, her demeanor flipping from scared to fuck-you, and for some bizarre reason, that fascinates me.
With more bravado than most men who face me show, she says, “Forgive me for not being one of the girls you see in the movies who stupidly follows the serial killer to their demise. Idon’t know you, which means I’m not getting off this elevator with you.”
I can’t stop my amused grin, even though I’m also annoyed that she would assume the worst about me. Again, I blame my half brother and whatever he told her that made her think that. Tristan and I may hate each other, and I may want him dead more often than not, but I have never raised my fist to a woman. I wouldn’t. I saw my mother with black eyes and bruises on a daily basis, and that’s a line I will never cross.
My tone is cold when I inform her, “If I wanted to hurt you, I would have done so already.”
Biting her plush bottom lip, Syn hesitates before replying, “Answer is still no. Give me back my bag.”
She appears shocked when I immediately comply and step out of the elevator, knowing full well she’s not going to join me. Wasting no time, Syn jabs at the buttons and heaves a sigh of relief when the doors start to come together.
“See you around, Synthia.”
That’s a promise I plan to keep.
Fourteen
Journal Entry
Twenty-two years old
Through the doubleglass pane three stories up, I study the students strolling the grounds of DF. The world looks so ordinary from this viewpoint. What would it be like to be normal? To have a different life?
My contemplation shifts to the horizon beyond where the sky meets the curvature of the earth, the lowering sun coloring everything in hues of orange and coral pink. Unfortunately, the serene view of campus outside the bell tower’s window does little to help dispel the tension Patrick Knight’s phone call just created.
I wasn’t ready to make a move yet, but the bastard wants his wife dead sooner rather than later. I don’t understand the rush. Maybe his new side piece, Natasha Zephyros, has something to do with it.
“You look like you want to kill someone.”
