Aira opened her eyes again, meeting his gaze. He was standing in the doorway, arms folded loosely across his chest, eyes flicking over her ruined form with detached amusement.
"You always were dramatic, Aira. But this…" he gestured vaguely at her, "this is performance art."
She wanted to scream at him, to tear his smug expression off his face. But she couldn't move. She couldn't even lift her head.
Instead, all she could do was glare, eyes full of loathing—and shame.
He stepped closer, his boots echoing ominously against the tile.
"You thought telling me no was the best?" he asked, voice lower now, his amusement colder. "Did you even think this plan through? That your little plan wouldn't come back to bite you?"
He crouched beside her then, so close she could see every curve of his handsomely wicked face and red eyes as they bored into her.
