Page 8 of Beautiful Villain
The girl slumped further as the car moved, slipping in and out of consciousness.Her fingers curled weakly into the ruined fabric of her dress, knuckles white.
She was afraid.Fear was a familiar emotion.It was predictable, and you always knew what you were getting with it.
What wasn’t predictable was the way it tugged at something sharp and unpleasant in my chest.
Something I ignored.
At the house, my men carried her inside.
She groaned when they lowered her onto the sofa—mysofa—and I winced.Not out of sympathy.Because I’d only just had it reupholstered.Months of waiting, an obscene invoice, and now this.
Her eyes fluttered open again, unfocused and glassy, like she was drifting in and out of a bad dream she hadn’t agreed to.Under proper lighting, she looked smaller somehow.The defiance I’d seen earlier dulled by shock and exhaustion, leaving something far more fragile behind.
It was an inconvenient detail, because fragile things often had a way of complicating matters.
Her thigh was already swelling, angry and purple, and blood streaked down her calf in a messy, unapologetic line.A bruise bloomed along her hip where the car had clipped her, dark and ugly, like it wanted to be remembered.The dress—what was left of it—had torn there, fabric shredded, modesty officially resigned.
And her hair.Christ.Black curls spilled over the white cushions, a stark, sinful contrast.The veil sat crooked on her head, pinned there at a peculiar angle by a single stubborn clip, like it was determined to see this disaster through to the end.She looked less like a runaway bride and more like a fallen angel—tragic, dramatic, and absolutely not my problem.
Except she was.
When her eyes finally focused on me, I crouched in front of her, my eyes hard.Already planning how much this was going to cost me.
“Welcome,” I said calmly, because I’m nothing if not polite, “Scream, and I will gag you.”
Her gaze wobbled, fought to understand the words.Then—slowly—she nodded.Good.Because bleeding brides on my furniture were one thing.Noise was where I drew the line.
“Name?”I asked.I was met with silence.
I waited her out, because patience was a skill I’d perfected the hard way.The seconds of silence stretched.Her expression didn’t change.I wasn’t sure if her lack of fear of me was impressive, or stupid.Possibly both.
“It’s only a matter of time before I find out who you are,” I told her.“Your cooperation decides how unpleasant the wait becomes.”
Her lips trembled.“Why?”
“Why what?”I said, arching a brow.“Why do I want your name?”
She stared at me like I’d asked for a kidney.
I exhaled slowly, already tired.“I’d assume it’s common courtesy,” I continued, gesturing vaguely at her, “given that you’re bleeding all over my life and my furniture.”
Her blood had soaked into the pale fabric of the sofa in an ugly, spreading bloom.I made a mental note to burn it later.Or donate it.To someone I didn’t like.
She swallowed, her throat bobbing.But she still didn’t give me her name.
“You know,” I went on conversationally, “most people start with their name.It’s how conversations work.Introductions.Small talk.A social lubricant.”
Still, she gave me nothing.
I glanced toward Enzo, who was hovering by the doorway like a man who desperately wanted to be useful but lacked the imagination.“Don’t,” I warned, without looking at him.He opened his mouth anyway.
“Maybe she hit her head and forgot it,” he offered.“You know.Concussion.Temporary amnesia.Happens in movies all the time.”
I finally turned to him, eyes level and unblinking.It was a miracle he’d survived this long with such an underdeveloped sense of self-preservation.
“If this were a movie,” I said evenly, “you’d be dead by now for suggesting something that stupid.”
Enzo shut his mouth.Progress.
