He Waited She Wilted (Ottilie and Yorath) novel Chapter 184

His fingers rhythmically tapped against the wooden box.

A slow, methodical beat.

"What makes you so sure it's a sugar daddy and not a boyfriend?" Jevon asked, raising an eyebrow.

The tapping abruptly stopped.

"Because she loves me," Yorath replied simply.

"True enough. She was so hopelessly obsessed with you, there's no way she'd date anyone else. Back then, we hammered it into her head every single day—she was just a pet, not your girlfriend. But it always went in one ear and out the other."

The back door swung open, and Ottilie slid in, bringing the vibrant scent of the florist shop with her.

Yorath silently decided he hated the smell.

Her natural scent was infinitely better.

Jevon glanced back over his shoulder at her.

He flashed a faux-polite smile. "You're looking radiant, Ms. Sewell. Getting plenty of sleep lately?"

"It's been fine." She gave a hollow smile and turned to stare out the window.

"Yorath blew off his grandmother's acute leukemia, ignored his own concussion and injuries, and dragged himself through the freezing rain in the mountains for days just to find you. And yet, you won't even give him a smile. The second you get back, you piss him off so badly he walks out. You've certainly got quite the attitude, Ms. Sewell."

Ottilie was more than used to Jevon's endless mocking.

She had trained herself to turn a blind eye and a deaf ear to his poison.

Grinding his teeth, Jevon let out a frustrated huff and finally shut his mouth.

The car plunged into silence, making the overpowering scent of the sunflowers even more suffocating.

After a while, the air grew thick and heavy.

As Ottilie shifted her gaze toward the flowers resting by the mini-fridge, she caught a glimpse of the box sitting under a file on Yorath's tray table.

The box was crafted from polished burled walnut.

Engraved directly on the front were the round faces of the golden snub-nosed Monkey Motif.

Her pupils constricted, and her hand gave an involuntary twitch.

Yorath sat perfectly upright in the back seat, staring straight ahead, his expression flawlessly unreadable.

Jevon twisted around to chat with his friend.

"There's been a lot of heat on Quentin's hospital lately. You think someone is pulling strings behind the scenes? A few doctors have already bolted. I think we need to look into it."

As he spoke, Jevon's eyes darted toward the rearview mirror.

Ottilie's reflection stared back at him. Her head was bowed, exposing her delicate profile and the elegant curve of her neck.

Quiet. Gorgeous.

The soft, flushed color was undeniably tantalizing.

He narrowed his eyes slightly.

In that asylum, she had let another man have a taste just to secure her freedom.

A dangerous, frigid storm brewed in his gaze.

Who the hell had the power to reach their filthy hands into Quentin's territory?

"Can I get out of the car?" she asked softly.

He merely stared at her in silence.

She forced a weak smile. "I'm just feeling a bit anxious."

He reached over and captured her hand. "Why are you so freezing?"

"The AC is too high." She tried to pull away, but his grip was ironclad.

He lifted her hand, pressing a slow, deliberate kiss to her knuckles.

"Tilly, what do you want?"

In the past, she would have answered without a second thought: *I want you.*

"I don't want anything," she replied, her voice devoid of any lingering hope. "Yorath, you really should have just talked to me three years ago."