Belladonna (Belladonna #1)(9)
“Thank you so much for your time. I can manage from here” was all Signa said to the attendant before hurrying after Sylas, attempting to take long steps despite her swaying back and shaking arms. Several people offered to help, but already the conductor was calling out for final boarding, and Signa could focus only on getting herself and her belongings where they needed to be and not getting separated from the devil that was Sylas Thorly. By the time she made it to the train, her skin shone with sweat and her breaths were so heavy that no one looked her in the eye.
Even burdened by the weight of her belongings, Signa had to take a moment to admire the beauty of the train. It was finer than she’d expected, with black-iron handrails and sturdy wooden tables that had red-leather benches on either side. Her ticket indicated a private room where Sylas waited, lounging upon a plush velvet seat with his boots kicked up onto the matching maroon seat across from him. He took one glance at Signa and wrinkled his nose.
“My God. I had no idea a woman could sweat so profusely.”
If Signa truly were a witch, she might have boiled Sylas alive. “I wouldn’t be sweating if you hadn’t decided to run ahead without me, sir.”
At this, Sylas scoffed. A foul, repulsive sound. “I should have known you weren’t listening to me. Had you not allowed yourself to fall prey to distraction, you’d have heard me say that I was going ahead to ensure that our compartment was in order.”
Signa bit her tongue. Now that he had reminded her, yes, she did recall that Sylas might have said something, and that yes, she had nodded. Still, he should have been louder.
Choosing not to respond, Signa set about storing her luggage in the overhead bin. Heavy as the chest was, her arms trembled as she tried to lift it above her head. She was grateful for an excuse to keep her back to Sylas, but she couldn’t quite manage the maneuver. Her muscles seared, and after several solid minutes of pushing through and ignoring the aching, they eventually gave out on her entirely.
Signa stumbled back, momentarily convinced she would soon be paying Death another visit after being crushed by the travel chest. But before she could fall, Sylas was on his feet, bracing her from behind. From head to toe, Signa flushed as his chest pressed against her back. She’d never been so close to a man.
Sylas didn’t appear to share her surprise. While she was still focused on the firmness of his chest, he stepped to the side and took the luggage from her, placing it in the overhead bin. “Why would you choose to carry something so heavy?” he asked. “Had I not been here, that chest might have fallen upon your face. What would you have done then?”
“I suppose I would have been faceless,” she answered, indignant. “And again, I wouldn’t have needed to carry it if I hadn’t had to race to keep up with you. I feared you’d left me.”
Sylas threw himself into his seat with a snort, legs insufferably outstretched. “You should have told me you walk so slowly. I might have thought to carry you, had I known.”
She took her seat across from him, wondering if his unbearable personality was some sort of test for her patience. Holding her knees together so that they wouldn’t bump his, she flashed a razor-thin smile at her escort and asked, “Would you mind sitting a bit straighter, Mr. Thorly?”
Sylas peered down at himself. “Am I sitting oddly?”
Good God, she would need strength to deal with this man. With the toe of her gray boot, Signa tapped one of his knees, then the other—they were too far apart. “You’re sitting like you’re the only one in this compartment.”
His blink was slow, and though Signa knew he understood, he didn’t right himself or apologize. Sylas only laughed and shut his eyes, as if he intended to take a nap. “You’re certainly forward.”
She’d tried her hardest to have good manners, but there was something exasperating about this man. Something about his aloofness and constant staring—as though he’d already decided Signa was a nuisance—caused those manners to waver and harsh words to slip out. Signa could barely stop herself as she took hold of her dress and hiked it up to her knees, freeing enough room for them to spread apart like Sylas’s. “It would seem my manners are as impeccable as yours. I expected someone in your position to be more polite.”
“And what position might that be, Miss Farrow?”
“The position of escorting a lady.”
“A lady?” He cracked open his eyes, assessing her unseemly posture and the hiked-up dress before shutting them again. “Let me know when we find one, and I’ll happily escort her.”
Ignore him, she told herself, forcing her lips into a smile that could burn. You are to be a lady. Poised and graceful and demure. She folded her hands together and patted her dress back into place.
Feigning calmness, Signa inspected their compartment. Beside Sylas was a trolley stuffed full of sugary treats and baked goods. There was sweet sea salt toffee, boxed sticky buns that dripped with thick syrup and golden walnuts, tiny pastries that oozed plum jelly, and so much more. She was so busy feeding her eyes that she nearly jumped when Sylas whispered, “Could I interest you in a handkerchief, Miss Farrow? I believe there’s some drool on your lip.”
She did everything in her power not to cast him a loathing stare, then inquired, “Are these for us?”
He looked to the trolley, but no light shone in his eyes. There was no delight upon his lips, nor a hunger roaring from his stomach. “They must have come with the compartment” was all he said. Flat. Factual. As though there wasn’t a feast of sweets before them. Signa found herself wondering if perhaps this man was inhuman.