The Living Statue

17.

Don't forget to vote and comment :)

•

My anger only escalated as I left the house and found a small, stone bench in the garden. I thought I would calm down as soon as I breathed in some fresh air but as I found myself alone with my own thoughts, the barometer of my temper only arose.

I didn't know if I was more mad with Mr Torres  or myself. I hated myself for stepping into that goddamn Empire in the first place. I hated him for treating me like a child, or worse, for making me feel bad that I am a woman.

How fucked up is that? I should be proud of being a woman. That is not something I should be ashamed of and yet he makes me feel as if it is the worst thing possible. As if being a woman only means looking pretty and keeping your mouth shut.

The thing that bothers me the most is that I gave him that power to make me feel like shit. I didn't care about him and I sure as hell didn't care about his opinion, so why was I hurt in the first place?

And - guess what - now I felt bad for acting the way I did. I felt bad for having my outburst and for indirectly telling him that he has no heart. I had no right to do that, but I would never tell him that. The inner guilt was bad enough I didn't need his gloating as well.

I inhaled a deep breath before exhaling it sharply. Then, I repeated the process a few more times.

"It's really crowded in there, isn't it?"

"Jesus Christ," I breathed out, turning around to face the stranger who had just ruined my randez vous with my own thoughts.

"I'm sorry," he chuckled. "I didn't mean to scare you."

In front of me stood a tall man in his early thirties, dressed in a conspicuously expensive suit. He had a remarkable smile, the one that could've easily threatened Hugo's title as the Mr Contagious Smile. His dirty-blond hair was slicked backwards, that way giving the spotlight to his captivating, blue eyes. His slightly crooked nose gave a certain roughness to his flawless beauty. Usually I didn't like men with hawk-like noses, but somehow it really looked good on him. Slowly, casually, his eyes gauged me from head to toe.

I let out a sigh of relief. "For a second I thought you'd drug me, kill me with an axe and sell my organs on a closeout."

Another low chuckle escaped his throat as he sat down on the stone bench next to me. "What makes you think I won't?" His expression was dead serious by now and my smile faded away.

My eyes fell on the glass of scotch he was holding. On his middle finger he wore a conspicuous, black diamond ring with a capital letter 'S' engraved in it in shiny silver.

It's a joke you stiff, calm down.

I snapped up my head to look at him. "Well, for starters you can't be an axe murderer with that face," I pursed my lips, giving him a shy smile.

"What is that supposed to mean," he raised his eyebrow, obviously amused by this whole situation.

The wind carried his strong, masculine scent and I found myself enjoying the pleasant smell. "It's supposed to mean that you have a pretty face, I guess," I chuckled, fixing my gaze on the grass beneath my feet.

"And here I thought that 'pretty face' is a requirement for being a bad guy," he smirked, taking another sip of his drink.

"Yeah well, being a bad guy is one thing and being a serial killer is another, pretty boy."

"You don't say," he said, scooting closer to me and leaning forward. "And which do you prefer - good guys or bad guys?", he whispered, slowly pronouncing every syllable.