Not For Love

10. I Love You

I realize my unreasonable—and annoyingly specific—anger to be gone the second I realize I really don't care.

   It's a good thing, a voice in me says. It means you don't love him. Then as if heaven is bent on making me over think this, the voice adds, yet.

   I don't have time to part with Asher in the middle of a dancing crowd when he sighs and takes my hand.

   A frown materializing in my, for some reason, twitchy brows makes me snatch my hand back. "Aren't you supposed to ask for a dance?" I ask, sounding a lot more playful than I had intended.

   Asher notices something in my smile which makes him mirror it. "Not my style," he defends his poor decision, surpassing my level of—unintentional—playfulness without hesitance.

   A chuckle flees from me before I want it to. "Well, I'll politely decline the offer you never gave."

   He raises an eyebrow in an attempt to appear haughty. But seems unaware it is in vain. Should I tell him the only thing he needs to do to appear haughty is be his natural, self-absorbed self? Negative. No. Not really.
   "You know how many women here want to dance with me, Clemonte?" says the most arrogant man with only looks to offer.

   I smile in triumph already content with my upcoming retort. "Then take one of them to dance," I state the obvious.

   His smile grows and he extends his hand to me. "I want to dance with you."

   I fight an unknown urge. Is he dense or is merely pretending to not notice the mood? I go with the latter and stubbornly fold my arms. "I don't."

   Asher makes no attempt to prod me with movements. "I thought women enjoyed dancing." And uses words instead.

   "Many do. I do too," I say, quickly. "Just have different preferences in types."

   "What do you prefer?"

   "Not couple dances. Not anything on classic songs." I remain relentless. "And certainly not when the partner has no courtesy to ask."

   Asher winces at the last comment but doesn't take his eager hand back. "Something else, your highness?"

   "In short, put on a rock song and I'll show you my moves."

   "In short, you don't know how to dance," Asher amends, gaze narrowed, brows ceased and eyes devious.

   I clamp my mouth shut and avert my gaze, hating him being so quick to notice things. At his barely stifled laughing, I, once again, fight a million urges.
Don't do it, Eda. This man is not worth going jail for.
   "How many years do you get for killing someone?"

   I only realize I pondered aloud when Asher retreats a short step, eyes wide and stance firm in caution. "Quite a few, depending on the motive," he says, appearing to be in a daze—shocked or petrified. He proves it to be amusement when he only seems to grin, smug and certain.

   I contemplate places to bury bodies and don't realize I unfolded my arms until Asher has them in reach. I, now too conscious of the many eyes to even count on us, let Asher take my hand again. He places it on his shoulder gently as if he is scared I might attack him and go through with my threat, and then takes my other hand in his. This time firm in his hold, like I'd slip from his strong fingers if he were lenient.

   I suddenly wonder how long it took for him to get used to all the eyes calculating his shortcomings and figuring out where an attack would hurt the most. How long did it take for him to appear so unaffected. For the first time I envy him. His confidence, his certainty, his surety even when being in the spot light. I closed myself off from the prying eyes of judgmental rich people, why didn't he?