Your Regrets Won't Bring Me Back - Chapter 63: Chapter 63
You are reading Your Regrets Won't Bring Me Back, Chapter 63: Chapter 63. Read more chapters of Your Regrets Won't Bring Me Back.
Simon's eyes went instantly pitch-black, a chill like steel flashing through their depths. Elena remained expressionless save for the small furrow that tightened between her brows.
From outside, Annabelle's shrill voice rattled on through the phone, "Damn it, I laced her cake with so much seafood powder and the witch still wouldn't drop dead! She even stole the whole show at the banquet! Sir Whitmore favors her, so now she thinks she can break Victor and me up. I won't allow it—I will drive that bitch out of the Bennett family!"
Elena's expression sank—so it really had been Annabelle's handiwork. Yet Adaline had been present as well; what role had her mother played? As the click of heels faded down the corridor, a slow, icy numbness crept through Elena's limbs.
Simon looked down at her. "Do you still have feelings for Victor Whitmore?"
She straightened, putting an inch between them. "No."
A phantom smile tugged at his mouth. "Seems you've got yourself a headache. Need me to clear away a few petty thugs for you?"
Elena met his gaze. "No, thank you. Some debts are only satisfying when I settle them myself." Part of her motive, of course, was pride; the greater part was caution—Simon Whitmore was Sir Whitmore's youngest son and the true power behind the family. He was brilliant, ruthless, and absolutely untamed. Crossing the Bennett family might be troublesome, but tangling with him would be lethal.
"If there's nothing else, I'll be going," Elena said.
She had only begun to pivot when Simon caged her between the door and his chest. "Leaving already? A spoken thank-you strikes me as terribly perfunctory."
Elena drew a steadying breath. "All right—how about I treat you to dinner another day?"
Tilting his head as though weighing her offer, Simon eventually chuckled and shook it off. "Not worth the bother. Food tastes the same whether you buy it or I do."
"Then what would satisfy you?" she asked.
He tapped a fingertip to his own lips. "A kiss."
Her eyes flew open. "You—"
Simon, evidently delighted, swooped without warning.
Elena hadn't expected the onslaught; she froze as his face filled her vision.
Instinct jerked her head aside, lashes sweeping down. His lips halted a whisper above her collarbone, never quite touching, yet the implication was scorching. Warm breath fanned across the curve of her neck, raising every fine hair on end.
Suddenly Simon parted the neckline of her dress, voice dropping to a lethal register. "Who did this?"
Jarred back to awareness, Elena blinked, lost for a moment.
His gaze burned over the crisscross of scars marring her skin; rage reddened his eyes. With a touch unexpectedly soft, his fingertips traced one jagged line. "Where did these come from?" he asked, each word edged in ice.
Elena kept her mouth shut, a visceral sense of being locked in his sights making her want to flee; she had no wish to provoke this unpredictable beast.
The storm in Simon's eyes slowly ebbed, leaving a flicker of aching tenderness. He caught her chin between two fingers. "What am I to do?" he murmured. "You're nothing like you used to be—who's going to give me back that bright, mischievous little girl?"
Elena stared at him, utterly at sea. 'What on earth is he talking about? Did we know each other before?' His fingers roamed to her mouth, rubbing lightly over the curve of her lips, as though reacquainting themselves with a memory only he possessed.
From outside, Annabelle's shrill voice rattled on through the phone, "Damn it, I laced her cake with so much seafood powder and the witch still wouldn't drop dead! She even stole the whole show at the banquet! Sir Whitmore favors her, so now she thinks she can break Victor and me up. I won't allow it—I will drive that bitch out of the Bennett family!"
Elena's expression sank—so it really had been Annabelle's handiwork. Yet Adaline had been present as well; what role had her mother played? As the click of heels faded down the corridor, a slow, icy numbness crept through Elena's limbs.
Simon looked down at her. "Do you still have feelings for Victor Whitmore?"
She straightened, putting an inch between them. "No."
A phantom smile tugged at his mouth. "Seems you've got yourself a headache. Need me to clear away a few petty thugs for you?"
Elena met his gaze. "No, thank you. Some debts are only satisfying when I settle them myself." Part of her motive, of course, was pride; the greater part was caution—Simon Whitmore was Sir Whitmore's youngest son and the true power behind the family. He was brilliant, ruthless, and absolutely untamed. Crossing the Bennett family might be troublesome, but tangling with him would be lethal.
"If there's nothing else, I'll be going," Elena said.
She had only begun to pivot when Simon caged her between the door and his chest. "Leaving already? A spoken thank-you strikes me as terribly perfunctory."
Elena drew a steadying breath. "All right—how about I treat you to dinner another day?"
Tilting his head as though weighing her offer, Simon eventually chuckled and shook it off. "Not worth the bother. Food tastes the same whether you buy it or I do."
"Then what would satisfy you?" she asked.
He tapped a fingertip to his own lips. "A kiss."
Her eyes flew open. "You—"
Simon, evidently delighted, swooped without warning.
Elena hadn't expected the onslaught; she froze as his face filled her vision.
Instinct jerked her head aside, lashes sweeping down. His lips halted a whisper above her collarbone, never quite touching, yet the implication was scorching. Warm breath fanned across the curve of her neck, raising every fine hair on end.
Suddenly Simon parted the neckline of her dress, voice dropping to a lethal register. "Who did this?"
Jarred back to awareness, Elena blinked, lost for a moment.
His gaze burned over the crisscross of scars marring her skin; rage reddened his eyes. With a touch unexpectedly soft, his fingertips traced one jagged line. "Where did these come from?" he asked, each word edged in ice.
Elena kept her mouth shut, a visceral sense of being locked in his sights making her want to flee; she had no wish to provoke this unpredictable beast.
The storm in Simon's eyes slowly ebbed, leaving a flicker of aching tenderness. He caught her chin between two fingers. "What am I to do?" he murmured. "You're nothing like you used to be—who's going to give me back that bright, mischievous little girl?"
Elena stared at him, utterly at sea. 'What on earth is he talking about? Did we know each other before?' His fingers roamed to her mouth, rubbing lightly over the curve of her lips, as though reacquainting themselves with a memory only he possessed.
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