Cedric Alistair.
"To hell with my life," Olivia cursed inwardly, her pulse thumping unevenly against her jugular. Why must I face this lunatic now?
"Could you please move your hands?" she said aloud, her voice cold enough to frost the air.
Cedric withdrew his arms, stepping back to face her with a theatrical flourish. "What a chilling greeting, my sweet," he mused, his obsidian eyes dancing with a manic glint.
"You're still a scoundrel, I see," she hissed. "Keep your distance."
"Now, now, let's keep our tempers in check. You're still as sharp-tongued and exquisite as ever—so beautiful, in fact, that I find myself wanting to lock you in a gilded cage just to admire you every single day."
Olivia fell silent. Despite his playful smile, the underlying malice in his voice sent a shiver of pure dread down her spine.
He wasn't joking; Cedric was the type of man who would turn a person into a statue just to keep them from walking away.
