Fleeting Impressions | J.M.

8: queens and games

"I said only to deduce Emma, let's not show off now my sweetest," the words sound like a hiss now instead of endearing. If his anger is trained on me, maybe it won't be on Emma. And that is all I hope. Or maybe, I took it too far and he's going to kill us both. I never was as great of a detective as Sherlock or Mycroft. They always got the better of me, but I did well enough to hold my own.

But not well enough without them. If Sherlock was here, he would have added on to that. Probably told the girl her birth month, got the fathers appearance down and would be able to deduce everything about the man on the other side of the microphone.

Because that's the flaw that I have with James. I feel. And Sherlock never let's sentiment get in to block his talents. That's a flaw that's only mine.

I just hope it wasn't at the cost of a life.

"Don't move," he orders and the dots flicker out on Emma and I let out a breathe of relief. My body sits at the end of the seat, ready to bolt to her, untie her and leave. But I know I am still at his mercy.

The music starts up again, and he waltzes out to the stage. A dagger in one hand and a gun in the other. He sashays onto the stage, twirling himself until he is right in front of the terrified girl. I lean forward to see, to hear, but I don't pick up anything as he leans in to her ear and whispers.

She stays stock still. Frozen in what I assume to be fear. What did he say to her? She glances over at me in sadness.

As soon as he stands back and snaps his fingers, men in black trickle out from the curtains and pick Emma up, seat and all.

"Let her go," I demand and stand up from the seat to storm over to him.

"Sit," he hisses as me and I obey like an obedient puppy. Why do I listen to him all the time? I remind myself that Emma could still be in the hands of his henchmen. Yes, that's why I didn't even hesitate when he gave me an order. I must have a very caring subconscious.

As soon as I hear a door shut in the back, he looks up to the balcony seats and I follow his gaze to see no one there. It seems as if we are alone now.

He discards the gun and strides over to me, his hand cups my face and he takes a moment to study every flaw, every line and spot. I shift uncontrollably under his gaze.

"Is she safe," I ask softly to break his trance.

"Don't be boring darling. Of course she is. You won," he pets the side of my face, "even though you cheated."

I balk at him, "I did not cheat!"

A real smile spreads across his face at that. "If I remember correctly. You flattered me. Tried to get me to focus on you and your sweet words instead of our little game."

I try not to let my cheeks heat up at that. Somehow, I do remember saying some very flattering things about him when I was deducing. I said he had a 'way with words' and called him powerful. My legs sift together for friction when I remember how I deduced him to be a 'primal male'. I never even realized I said those things. It wasn't on purpose.

"Oh, what are you thinking about?" He leans farther down to stare into my eyes, his hand shoots out to spread my legs to were he can fit himself perfectly between them.

"Nothing," I almost stutter. But I don't. That would be a little too degrading.

He hums. "My queen already has me kneeling for her," he muses and glances down at how our cores meet up at the center. "In my Westwood, no less. You must be something special."

My voice gets caught in my throat. His dark eyes and hungry expression eat at my soul. I know I don't have daddy issues, so why am I so attracted to this dangerous and controlling male? Why am I also clinging to him? I thought I promised I would stop this behavior.

"What do you want James?" I ask him, absolutely exhausted without adrenaline boosting through my veins.

"I want you," he answers honestly. "But I want you to be at your full potential."

I pause at that. "So you want me to be a criminal?" I eye the knife still in his other hand. I'm not stupid. I know this game will end in him making me his queen. One way or another. I'm no match for the Napoleon of Crime.

"That would be sexy. It would also make things a lot easier."

"Easier for what," I ask reluctantly.

He states thoughtfully, his face blank with concentration and in the end, I guess he decides not to tell me the truth. He swallows. Then grins that little psychotic smile that I can't seem to look away from. His hand runs through my hair.

"I'm going to take you out next Sunday. Be ready," and that's it. He stands as if nothing effected him in the slightest. And then he walks away, the ending of Rossini fades and the curtains close.

I wonder how this is all going to go. Despite the ecstasy that flows through my body when James is around, feeding off his danger, I feel washed out when he leaves.

I wonder what Sunday has in store for me?

But I know one thing. I will never be a criminal.