If Blakely has a sliver of cognitive empathy in her being, she’s doing a poor job of employing that capability now. There is absolutely no compassion in her eyes, her expression more condescending than sympathetic. I wasn’t prepared for this reaction from her.
My hypothesis wasn’t only correct, it was alarmingly accurate. I was the sacrificial lamb she literally pushed onto the altar.
I was expecting her to portray some semblance of remorse. Which I could use to springboard to the next stage. Every time I think I know what I’m dealing with, that I’m prepared…she surprises me.
Surprises aren’t good. Not in this context.
So I resort to the easiest emotion to manipulate: anger.
When confronted with a situation that is out of our control, a centric, no range emotion such as anger masks any uncertainty. I’m sure Blakely is well aware of this ploy herself.
“You could’ve gotten me killed,” I say as I approach her, my expression contorted. “You almost did.”
“Walk.”
Her response catches me off guard again. Despite my resistance, I keep moving, trailing behind her as she dips between buildings.
“You need to stop.” I halt in the middle of the alley. “What you did back there…” I grit my teeth and stare down at the oily pavement, summoning the ire I need in this moment. The light from the lampposts reflect in the sludge, shimmering in iridescent colors in the motor oil.
Blakely faces me, expectant. Truthfully, I’m trained in Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu. For the most part, I can hold my own. I was unprepared for the brute attack earlier, yes—but I could’ve defended myself instead of letting that guy use my face as a butcher block.
That’s not a detail Blakely needs to be made aware of yet, however.
My only alternative was to mitigate the damage as best as I could. I took two direct punches to the face and a blow to the stomach before I tucked myself into a ball and waited for the bouncers to intervene.
Any other “man” would consider my actions weak, pathetic. I have a bigger goal in mind than proving my worth as a man, though. My ego is a small price to pay for the greater good.
From the heat pulsing on my right upper cheek, I know a bruise is forming. Also, Blakely’s gaze is assessing that spot right now.
“Your cheek is swollen,” she says, her tone sterile and unaffecting.
I raise my eyebrows in mock astonishment. “It’s like I got into a fight or something.”
She ignores my sarcastic disdain. “What’s that stench?” Blakely wrinkles her nose and leans in close to me, then promptly backs away.
“The smell of raw herbivore flank used as an inflammation depressant.” At her impatient glare, I add, “Ericson thought it would be amusing to offer me a slab of steak for my bruised face.” I touch my eye and wince.
Blakely’s expression shifts slightly, opening up. She again steps toward me. This time, not letting social boundaries interfere with her examination. “You’re shaking,” she says.
“Adrenaline,” I say in answer. “The whole thing… The fight. The bouts in the ring. Being on guard around Ericson…” I shake my head. “My adrenaline is still pumping hard.”
Her nostrils flare, her stormy sea-green eyes wide as her gaze flicks over my face searchingly. “What does it feel like?”
I release a clipped breath. “Don’t change the subject. You threw me, quite literally, to the wolves. At the very least, you owe me an explanation.”
She shrugs. “It was the most logical way to gain Ericson’s attention without you being the one to approach him directly and raise his suspicions.” Her mouth twists into a sly grin. “Besides, you seem to take a beating pretty well. Did that before, have you?”
Well, actually, her plan worked, and it was a plan contrived—as far as I know—in the moment. She’s sharp. She’s resourceful. And looking at me the way she’s looking at me right now, she’s the most beautiful woman I’ve ever been this close to.
I breathe her in as I hold her penetrating gaze. “It feels exhilarating,” I admit.
Her tongue darts out to lick her lips, and my gaze follows its alluring path. “What else,” she demands.
I tilt my head, wondering if she’s trying to distract me or if her desire to understand my emotions is sincere.
“I see and feel everything,” I say, giving her what she wants. I reach out and take her hand, turn it over. I trace my fingers up her inner forearm, marveling at her smooth skin, the near transparency of it in the moonlight. The light dusting of freckles. The slight blue-green veins beneath her skin. The rushing blood.
I press my thumb over the pulse in her wrist. Her heartbeat doesn’t match mine. My pulse is racing where hers is steady.