#chapter planning

“My interest isn’t personal,” you lied, and through your dry throat it sounded worse than weak.

“Of course not,” he smirked, leaning slightly toward you once more. “I’ll tell you, but...”

You held your breath. His chest pressed against yours. His face was next to your head, on the same side where he’d brushed your hair back earlier. The bastard had planned it all — he’d even anticipated your curiosity. He was teasing you, and you were too weak to resist when his cheek was almost touching yours.

“But?” you asked, your voice wavering.

Silco laughed softly and low, his breath tickling your earlobe.

“You owe me,” he whispered suggestively, in a tone that made your knees go weak.

The sound, like an echo coming from the far end of the hallway and slowly growing louder, began to ring in your ears. And you started to be painfully aware of every single detail.

His breath was warm on your skin. Beneath the layer of cologne, you could smell a faint scent of smoke. No, not from cigars or cigarettes — the smell from outside, because the air was never clean. A hint of laundry detergent mingled with the freshness of his skin. A scent of tobacco, whiskey, and cologne always hung around him. Sometimes coffee. That’s why, catching those clean notes, you felt like a starving dog that had picked up a trail.

“I owe you… what?” you asked quietly.