Chapter 7- Rez

She definitely looks affronted. I see her mutter angrily under her breath and the way her brows furrow, for some reason, makes the ghost of a grin to appear on my lips again.

Viola: I don't know what you think you're doing, but I want none of it. I have invested too much in my mental health to be going through this. And trust me, if you don't let me out of the little lavish prison you brought me into, things are going to get really crazy. My head is banging from last night and I woke up from the wrong side of the bed. 

Now, why does this sound so entertaining? 

Me: Wrong side of bed? I've been through hell, Princess. I saw you naked last night but couldn't touch you. I think I have it tougher. 

The way her lips part just before her gaze burns like bonfire deserves an Oscar. Cinematic shit. But soon after, she is typing furiously on her phone, her sizzling annoyance obvious.

Viola: You. Did. What?  

I laugh loudly in the silence of the airy surveillance room as she wraps her arms tightly across her body, adorably self-conscious, gaze drifting from the ceiling to the grey walls; from the glass door that leads into the balcony to everywhere else, as she swears under her breath. 

Me: Surely you must have wondered how you got into that shirt. 

As soon as she receives the text, her fingers are dancing furiously over her screen again. 

Viola: No, because I thought since you obviously own a stupid villa you would be able to afford female help for situations like this, not be a total asshole and undress a drunk woman without her permission.

It takes me only a few seconds to reply and hit send, enjoying myself a little more than I would admit to anyone. This is definitely insane. Because it's only been forty-eight hours yet I'm sure I want Viola in my future. 

Me: Do I need permission to fuck you ten consecutive times in my head, switching positions as I do so? Because I already did. 

As soon as she receives the message she flings her phone onto her bed, yelling out colourful vituperations as she paces the marble, like some angry little fairy.

I'm laughing so hard I nearly bowl over my keyboard. It's been quite a while since I found anyone's antics this funny, but Viola is my drug, custom-made for me- my package of torment and heaven. I know I am willing to endure one, craving the other so long as they're both from her. 

Me: Ready for breakfast? What would you like?

When she sees this, she just rolls her eyes, still stewing in her rage, ignoring me. But I won't have her going hungry, so I ask the cooks to prepare a variety for her. Soon, the butler is wheeling the food cart into her bedroom after getting the keys from me. But I make sure there are two gaurds standing outside the door when he opens it and that Viola sees them- not that she likes it, watching silently, furiously as the doors close and her spread is served. It comprises a bit of every known breakfast meal item. Smiling, she receives the steel tray with thanks and then places it on the center table that is before the chaise longue. But on her return, she grabs the bread knife, and stalks for the butler. 

The poor man is not the only one who is puzzled. I lean in closer to watch, and the next few seconds are a chaotic blur as Viola chases the father of two around the space, knife at the ready, screaming something. I read her lips... ‘Let me out, right now!’ And as for the uniformed soul hapless enough to have his day start like this, he shrieks loudly as he tries to evade her. 

I've got to admit, this morning just seems to get better and better. Miss Prim and Proper terrorising my usually calm and collected senior employee with a fruit knife? Comedy gold. I am laughing like a maniac as my gaze follows them, telling myself that Viola Giovanni is definitely crazy. I want her.

And when she finally catches up to him, holding the blade to his throat, she types with her left, thumb sliding across her screen quickly until a text is pinging into my phone.

Viola: I have your man hostage. Let me out of this place now, else, I am going to stab him.  

Me: I can see that. Do it. 

The look that passes across her features lends to what I know of her already. If her reaction to the murder scene of a few days ago is any indication, then my pretty little butterfly would not hurt even an insect. Feisty, sassy, but at her core, afraid of the thought of blood- whether watching it be spilled or spilling it herself. 

And she knows that I know.