My heart does a somersault, and I instinctively lean back against the headboard. It's like he teleported. No joke. One blink, and bam—there he is. Close. Too close. It's like being in the middle of a horror flick, but instead of being scared, I'm having an internal meltdown because wow, up close, he's even more gorgeous, and also, what the hell is happening?
...
When he finally moves closer, I can smell his breath—warm and heavy—as it falls across my face.
"You," he says in a voice so low and sexy, it's almost intoxicating, like he's been sipping liquid confidence all night.
"Huh?" For a second, I forget I even asked him anything. Oh, right. He's answering my earlier question—whether he needed something. But… you? What does he mean me? Am I some kind of object he can just claim like, 'oh, yeah, I'll take that'? Uh, no. I'm a damn rarity, not some basic commodity. Boy, please.
"Have you been drinking?" I ask, though the answer is already obvious. I can practically smell the alcohol on his breath, mingling with the air between us. I've been around enough old money types to know the scent—booze is practically a business associate for the filthy rich, especially after finalizing a deal. I, on the other hand, have made it a point never to drink at those meetings. Self-control, babes. But now, with his breath this close to mine, I almost feel tipsy.
Surprisingly, he answers, "Yes." His voice is still that sultry, low drawl, but there's something oddly obedient about him when he's drunk, like the alcohol has loosened him up more than usual. For a guy who normally broods in the shadows like a bad-boy vampire, he's suddenly… talkative.
And I'd be dumb not to try and hear more of that sexy voice. But first—"Can you please sit up straight? You're about to smother me."
"No," he replies, and it irks me down to my very core. What do you mean, no? Ugh. Before I can unleash a snappy comeback, he glances at me, clearly noticing the annoyance in my eyes, and adds, "No, I won't smother you." Then, with the smoothest movement, he props himself up on one arm, hovering just a few centimeters above me, flexes his bicep, and deadpans, "Strong."
Am I... dreaming? Why is Villain Sama suddenly so... cute? Omg. This is ridiculous. I can't even stay mad at him when he's like this. What's worse is I can't tell if I should laugh or cry at this drunk man acting like he's in a muscle-flexing competition.
Why is this my life?
Still, I place a hand on his chest, lightly pushing against him, while totally copping a feel of those tight muscles under the thin shirt he's wearing. I mean, if I'm going to be stuck here, might as well gather some intel, right?
Maybe I can use this moment to finally talk sense into him and figure out what wires are crossed in his brain to make him want to nuke this whole world. Also, with the amount of time I've spent in therapy with my sexy psychiatrist, I'm basically a licensed therapist at this point. Multi-talented, I know.
But of course, he doesn't budge. Instead, he looks down at my hand, then back up at me, like I've committed the ultimate betrayal. The audacity—me, the villain for daring to push him away?
Oh, the irony.
"You already have me," I say in the kind of voice moms use when they're trying to coax their kids into behaving. I even throw in a little head pat, like he's a toddler in need of reassurance.
He frowns, clearly trying to process what I said through the alcohol haze clouding his brain. This, ladies and gentlemen, is exactly why I never drink.
Being the responsible, semi-sober adult in the room, I continue, "You shouldn't be drinking; it makes you dumb," my fingers lightly brushing through his hair like I'm soothing an overgrown baby.
Still no response, so I up my mom game. "You don't want to be dumb, do you?"
"No," he mutters, looking genuinely offended by the idea.
"That's right! How can you be rich if you're dumb—" Just when I think I've cracked the code, like I'm about to reform this villain into a contributing member of society, his voice cuts through my hopes.
"I don't have you," he says, almost like an afterthought. Then, with a casual shrug, he adds, "Yet."
My soul leaves my body for a second.