She sat. The chair scraped softly on the wooden floor of the quiet bookstore. She placed her tote bag on her lap like a shield. Her smile had vanished, replaced with a calm neutral expression. She was trying to look like a composed heroine. I like that.
"You came," I stated, lazily leaning back on the chair and letting the silence stretch. I like to see her tense, to count the fluttering pulse on the base of her neck.
"You asked me to" her voice was calmer than I expected. Good. Fear was boring. This quiet fake composure? That's all I need. Because I can see right through her.
"I did" I agreed, letting the silence stretch for a bit longer before I added.
"What's the inspiration about your books, Little Writer? You don't strike me for a violent person" She grinned at my question, letting her composure slip. She's relaxing. Traitor.
"That's what everyone is saying. I look innocent to be writing such books" she paused and looked away as if trying to recall something. Then she continued.
"Villains are toxic. Yet, they have the personalities of a man that every girl would dream to have. They don't bow to anyone but kneel in front of their woman"
"Tell me something I don't know, Little Writer " I drawled, bored. I want to listen to her yap about anything for as long as possible if it means hearing her voice or savoring her scent but not today. Today, is for answering my question not beating around the bush.
"Villains don't love..."
"Not true, they love hard" I cut her off as quickly as possible. That is the lie I'll never accept. She blinked at my outburst, clearly shocked but I was telling the truth. Real villains love hard.
She gulped down nothing and slammed back her neutral mask in place.
"Right Molten Amber, tell me about you. You don't strike me for someone who'd stay awake at 3am to read a book" she deflected my previous question.
Molten what?
She must've noticed the stunned flicker of my gaze because she smiled...again.
"Careful Little Writer, or I might think you're flirting" it was a warning. Her smile disorients my mind. A villain with a disoriented mind? Weakness.
"No! I wasn't. I was just...who are you?" Her curious chocolate eyes met mine and I held her gaze. She knows the answer, she just needs a reminder. She wrote me into existence. The villain from her recently published book, Shadows of Losswas just like me. His personality, character, method of killing, colour of eyes, everything mirrored mine. She just didn't know yet. And she's still rewriting me again in her new book, Ink and Blood. She doesn't know that too...yet.
"Nothing interesting to know about me. You're better off not knowing" it wasn't a lie. She'll be in danger the moment she knows something about me. And the last thing I'd ever want to do is to add another pile of work in the name of protecting someone. No, I'm not generous enough.
"Just your name and why you're so interested in my book. I promise I will not ask any more questions" she rushed, her words tumbling out, leaning forward. Staring at me through her unbelievably long thick lashes, her doe eyes turned pleading in an instant. Her voice too soft. Too polite.
Lies, writers only ask questions.
I looked away for the first time. I had to. She had no idea what she was doing to me, and so effortlessly. My gaze flicked back to her face.
"Names are mundane and useless, Little Writer" I saw a flash of disappointment in her eyes as I said that. I continued, however.
"But since you asked politely... Jayvion Carell" I paused, letting the name hang between us.
"Jayvion" she echoed the name. She shouldn't have! I'd swear her name sounded like a sinful sweet poetry in her voice. I wanted to wrap my hand around that little neck of hands and choke her just to hear her say my name again like a sinful prayer.
Instead, I clenched my hand at my side before I do something I'd regret.
"For why I'm interested in your book, let's just say you invited me" I smirked, answering her second question. I watched as her face contorted in confusion.
"In..in.. invited?" She stuttered.
"Two questions, Little Writer" I reminded her. I was right, writers only ask questions. Disappointment flashed by her eyes, so bright that it blinded me to answering.
"You don't just write dark romance as a career. You crave the existence of the villains. But you've never seen a real one" I gave her one deadly smirk of my own as my eyes turned a shade darker. She recoiled in fear. Right, she was scared.
"How many real villains have you seen?" She asked, her voice quivery than before.
I gave her a knowing glance.
"Only one" and that is me.
But I need not voice it for her to understand. She's a writer, she knows. She gasped, shrinking back to her seat. The neutral mask was long forgotten, replaced by a shocked and utterly confused writer.
"Page 67 of your manuscript, villains never beg, they claim"