Once again, my past floods my thoughts, leaving me terrified with a swarm of nervous butterflies fluttering in my lower abdomen.
It's just handing him my phone. Not a big deal, right? But his words keep echoing in my mind, making me feel uneasy.
"Hey! There's no need to worry. I promise I won't snoop through your phone."
His gentle voice pulls me out of my thoughts, and I look at him to find a reassuring smile on his handsome face and his two fingers raised in a scout's honor pose.
He really needs to smile more, was the first thing that crossed my mind as I stared at the soft smile on his face, like a delicate butterfly. I quickly pushed the thought aside when my heart fluttered at the sight of his dimples.
I'm still confused about this part, though. It would be better if he didn't smile because those adorable little dimples on his cheeks are dangerous.
They disarm your thoughts and make your brain go numb, leaving you in a zombie-like state.
Like right now.
What were we talking about?
"Lyra!"
His sharp call snaps me out of my daze, and I speak before I think.
"You have such cute dimples."
As soon as the words leave my lips, my eyes widen in horror as my brain catches up with what I just said.
It's like there was some glitch in the connection between my brain and my lips, causing my lips to move on their own.
I did say earlier that those smile dents were dangerous.
My cheeks flush a deep red. I can feel my blood rushing to the surface of my skin.
What now?
Pray that the ground opens up and swallows me whole.
That would save me from this embarrassing moment.
I can barely look into his eyes; I avoid his gaze, looking everywhere but at those mesmerizing blue eyes. "Please forget what I just said," I beg silently, my voice trembling with mortification.
I'm supposed to be getting revenge on him, not falling for him. What the hell is wrong with you, Lyra?
Honestly, I'm furious with myself.
"Why?" he purred, a twinkle in his eyes.
A simple, curious question reflected in her cerulean eyes—no arrogance, no gloating, just genuine interest.
Because I can't fall in love with you.
I don't say these words aloud; instead, I said, "It's inappropriate to say that to my boss."
That's the truth, just not the whole truth.
"I don't mind," he says with a sexy wink.
If his dimples can erase all other thoughts from my head, his wink makes another part of me react—the lower part. The tingle makes me want to clench my legs.
Fuck! I am fucked. But I shall fight. He won't win a second time.
He extends his open palm toward me. I quickly drop my phone into his hand, no protest.
I've already put my foot in my mouth; I don't want to step into another mistake.
We step outside and head toward the ultra-modern mansion, its interior lights beckoning us.
The street is utterly quiet, with no one in sight—which is expected in such an upscale neighborhood.
If his sister lives in such a luxurious place, I wonder what his apartment looks like. He mentioned earlier that he feels trapped, unable to do whatever he wants. Does that mean he still lives with his parents?
That can't be fun—having your parents watching your every move.
The lobby is just as you would expect from an apartment of such high standards—fancy, expensive, glowing, and stunning.
There is a security guard who greets Ryan as if he were his boss— a bow from the waist.
Such a respectful greeting.
Hold on a minute.
Does this building belong to the Blackwells? I wouldn't be fucking surprised. I mean, the family owns almost everything in the city.
Ryan didn't throw one of those stiff nods rich people give to those they believe are beneath them. No, he surprises me when he takes a second to reply to the security man's greetings and enquires about his family.
"Does this building belong to your family?" I ask him as we ride the elevator towards the penthouse floor.
"Yes."
"Of course," I mumbled sarcastically underneath my voice, arms folded against my chest, with my body resting against the steel wall of the lift.
Ryan stood rim-rod straight beside me, his spine so straight that I am sure he doesn't experience these little aches in the back that worry us little humans.
How did he forge such a good posture? And let's not start with his physique. Lean and muscular, with no excess flesh anywhere.
"What was that?" Ryan asked, peering down at me. He catches me looking at him, but I quickly look away from his dashing figure to answer, hoping that my face doesn't look as I feel.
"Nothing," I answer, my voice slightly husky. His stare lingers a little on me, fixed on my eyes. My heart surges to my throat as if it is trying to escape my chest and say hello to the gorgeous being before us, while the butterflies in my lower belly do some Latino salsa.
I see his pupil dilate, the blue attain a soft glow, an expression I know too well, and have seen in the eyes of so many, but it was gone before I could fully register its presence, and Ryan looks ahead.
I exhale the air that has been locked inside my lungs, all the while his eyes were on my face.
Damn! I exclaim a little breathless.
The lift is slowing, so we are probably approaching our destination. Absent- mindedly, not that I was looking, my eyes caught his hand, and I noticed that he had it in a fist, like someone going through some internal battle.
The weird state of his hand causes me to take in his whole frame, and I realize that he looks tense. Like a drawn bow ready to be fired.
What has him in such a heightened state? Is it his sister? He seemed calm a few seconds ago until our eyes met.
I didn't get to solve the puzzle because we arrived at our destination. The lift stopped and opened into a short corridor that led to the apartment door.
Ryan leads the way out of the lift, his stride confident and powerful, without even a bit of hesitation. I noticed that when he left the lift, he slowed and waited for me to join him before continuing.
When we walked into the apartment, it wasn't the stunning interior decor that had my jaw on the floor, but the man on the ground, with a pool of blood around his head.
What the fuck?! I gawked at the unconscious man with wide eyes, wondering if he was dead.
Probably is with the amount of blood on the tiled floor.
Ryan asked the question, swimming around in my thoughts.
"Is he dead?"
Goosebumps erupt like rashes all over my arms and forearms. A certain chill grips my inside. I have never seen a dead body before, and from what I can see, the tall, lanky fellow on the floor is definitely dead.
He can't be alive. Not with the amount of blood pooling on the floor. More are still coming, and it looks like a river of blood.
I know the Blackwells are dangerous. Daniel certainly drummed it during our discussions, especially during the planning stage of our revenge, but seeing it real is a different ball game.
"I don't know!" The blonde woman sitting on the couch wails, as if the situation of the man on the floor is somebody else's fault.
She looks distressed. I don't know if it is because of what she has done or because she feels the loss of her husband.
There aren't many of us in the large living room. Including me, there are two more strangers—males. From the black suits, the serious, stern expressions on their faces, and the military haircut, I would guess they are the security.
I wasn't wrong in thinking that people as rich as my boss walk around with security guards; his sister certainly does.
The two macho guys aren't wearing any expression, as if the sight before them is one they are used to.
Without hesitation, Ryan takes charge of the situation, while his sister stands off in the corner looking scared.
She should be.
Looking closely, one could easily see the similarities between them: the same eyes, noses, and chiseled features. The few differences are the hair and the personality.
The woman comes across as one of those women who are all beauty and flashiness without any substance.
Her clothing looks expensive, her long nails painted gorgeous red, probably done in the salon. And her hair—long, glossy, and full.
I am so jealous.
My curls are like wild animals, very hard to tame, and surround my small face like a thick dark forest.
After examining the man, Ryan steps away from him and takes out his phone to call someone.
My heart pounds loudly at the grave expression on his face. I wonder how they'll explain things when the ambulance arrives.
I, too, want to know what happened to the man.
Seeing Ryan go for his phone alarms his sister, and she looks at him sharply, her blue eyes wide with panic.
"Who are you calling?!"