Clinton Priest

Chapter Twelve

Dedicated to Souzane1990.

Clinton's POV

"I see myself hating you in the near future," she says with conviction. Her thick brows furrows in ill concealed anger as she folds her arms beneath her lacking chest.

"You won't," I tell her. "There's a budding friendship between us and soon, you'll want me. It's inevitable."

"Mr. Priest," she starts. She's about to launch into a tirade of morality but I interrupt. I'm bored with her lectures.

"Call me Clinton," I say.

She sits back on the chair, her hands squeezing the plain fabric of her knee length dress as she bites her sultry bottom lip.

"Clinton," she says, and my cock twitches with life. I can almost imagine her full lips wrapped around me. It's this thought that makes me look back into her eyes.

"I'd appreciate it if you stayed away from my cousin," she ends. "She's engaged to be married to a good man."

"I know," I tell her. "I could see the ring on her finger when I took her into my arms."

"Theodore loves her," she tells me, "and he will ruin you for touching what's his."

"Like he ruined Adrian for touching you," I say and she's stunned to silence. Her lips turn down and her bright eyes dim.

"How did you know?" She asks softly. Her dainty hands are trembling in anguish and my heart is thrumming with the beginnings of joy. It's been a while since I dabbled in this sort of game. The anguish and sadness in her smouldering eyes, the aura of innocence wrapped around her slender frame makes me yearn for her touch in bed.

"I've heard stories," I tell her. "Haven is such a small town. Nothing is ever truly hidden in the dark." Nothing could ever be truly hidden from me.

"He didn't ruin Adrian," she clarifies, "Adrian made some bad choices in business. That's what destroyed him. Theodore did nothing of that sort for me. He's always been obsessed with Lizzy."

"I think he settled for Elizabeth because you chose to run. And I think you know that as well."

I pick up my cigar and take in a deep breath. It's only five in the evening. Soon, the chef will serve dinner. I wonder what she'll love to eat. She isn't vain enough to settle for a salad. At least that's what I have managed to gather from my interactions with her. I've tried not to read her mind in order to keep the feeling of surprise present in our conversations. I've tried not to do many things in her presence. Still, the fast flow of blood within her veins and the quickening of her pulse make it tasking to keep from draining her dry. If I give in, I remind myself, where then lies my reward? How would I ever taste the satisfaction of vengeance?

I watch as she rises from her chair and walks to the statue at the corner of the room.

"Who's she?" She asks.

I sense that she's trying to change our subject yet her choice gives me pause. I weigh my thoughts and options. I could easily sway her attention to more pleasing matters; like what she'll love to have for dinner tonight. Or I could spill a part of me to her and hope she doesn't believe me. I choose the second option. I want her to know me, I realise, to have a glimpse of the being I am, then, I want to watch her crumble underneath the weight of such knowledge.