"Give me a second, girl," Hazel murmured, already crossing the room, her heels clicking sharply against the floor as she headed straight for Manson.
Before she could speak, Karen's shrill voice pierced the air from inside the changing room.
"Hey, baby! I'll be out in a minute!" she called, loud enough to stake her claim.
Hazel dropped into the nearest chair. It groaned beneath her weight, the sound harsh in the tense silence that followed. Her eyes locked onto Manson, disbelief hardening her gaze.
"Really?" she said coolly. "You told me today was just going to be you and me. And yet you brought her along too?"
Manson didn't flinch. He remained maddeningly composed, as if her words hadn't struck at all. He leaned back slightly, his voice smooth, unbothered.
"She's been begging me for months to go out with her," he replied. "And since I'm free now, I figured I might as well have some company."
Manson's thumb clicked the lock button on his phone, the crisp click and satisfying lock sound cutting through the quiet like a knife. He didn't look at Hazel, but he could feel the way her eyes darted toward him, curious and wary.
"So you two are quite close," he remarked, his voice smooth yet edged with something dark. He leaned back against the chair, the impeccable lines of his tailored suit accentuating the breadth of his shoulders. One hand rested casually at the front of his body, while the other lifted with effortless precision to adjust his cuff, as if dismissing some imperceptible speck of dust. "Are you certain you are keeping the right company?"
Hazel straightened in her chair, the muscles in her neck taut. She folded her arms, a flicker of indignation crossing her face.
"What do you mean by that? She's the sweetest soul you could ever imagine!" she shot back, leaning forward slightly, as if to challenge him physically as well as verbally.
"Sweet?" Manson's lips curved into a faint, cruel smirk. His eyes sharpened, narrowing like a predator locking onto its prey as they swept over Fiona across the room. "Savor it while it lasts."
Hazel's fingers dug into the edge of her chair, her jaw tightening. She leaned forward, her weight pressing insistently toward him.
"Meaning?" she demanded, her voice low, simmering.
He chuckled softly, a sound that didn't reach his eyes. His hand rose, fingers extending like a casual threat, and he tapped her forehead lightly, playfully but every inch of the movement radiated control.
"Kids shouldn't involve themselves in adult matters," he murmured, tilting his head, eyes glinting as he watched her reaction.
Hazel recoiled slightly from the touch but refused to retreat, planting her hands on her knees, chin lifted.
Fiona stepped forward, the neatly packed bags in her hands swaying slightly with each measured step. "Here your things. The staff have finished packing them."
Hazel's lips curved into a knowing, teasing smile. "Thank you, my love." Her hand gestured lightly toward the couch. "Set them down there and take a seat."
Even as Fiona spoke, her eyes betrayed her, flicking surreptitiously toward Manson. He, in turn, remained unmoved, his gaze fixed on Fiona with a deliberate, unyielding intensity, as if the world contained nothing else worth observing.
Fiona's head tilted, one leg crossing over the other, a faint arch of curiosity on her brow. "Your love?" she asked, voice laced with playful incredulity. "Are you under some sort of influence?"
Hazel leaned back with effortless poise, her tone a soft, velvety caress of mockery and charm. "Perhaps," she admitted, letting her eyes glint with mischief, "but it is only your beauty that intoxicates me."
Manson's smirk stretched just slightly wider, slow and deliberate, like a predator savoring a moment. "Don't tell me, you two are more than friends," he murmured, the words rolling off his tongue with a teasing, almost poisonous amusement.
Hazel's gaze met his, laced with teasing defiance. "And if we are, think you can handle it?"
One leg crossed over the other at a sharp, deliberate angle, he lounged with effortless dominance. His fingers tapped slowly against his knee once, twice, each measured beat radiating control and quiet menace, the kind of confidence that didn't need to announce itself to be felt. Cold, magnetic arrogance clung to him like a second skin.
"Ah… we are in the twenty-first century," he drawled, a faint smile curving his lips as the words unfurled like a velvet taunt, hanging heavy in the air. "You're free to be whatever you want."
Then his gaze shifted, sharp as ice, to Fiona. His tone dipped into that insufferably irritating lilt, the kind that makes blood boil. "And you, little girl are you okay, being touched by a girl?"
Fiona froze, every nerve in her body screaming, blood burning hotter with indignation. "What kind of question is that?" she hissed, a storm barely contained.
Manson's smirk deepened, voice silky and venomous. "It's a question," he said, slow and deliberate. "Yes or no?"
"Why are you acting so innocent?" Manson's voice lingered, slow and deliberate, each syllable a sharpened tease. He tilted his head, letting his smirk stretch just enough to irritate. "Or are you a virgin?"
Fiona's fingers twitched, her patience fraying.
Before she could speak, his hand moved with maddening precision, gliding across her cheek like silk yet heavy with ownership, brushing her skin as if leaving a mark she couldn't erase.
"When clearly" His lips curled, teasing, taunting, deliberately slow. "there's dirt all over you."
Each word dripped with playful venom, designed to prick, provoke, and infuriate. Fiona's blood boiled, but he didn't stop every glance, every gesture, every inflection a quiet, relentless torment.
"You—" Fiona started, but Manson cut her off with a tilt of his head, a slow, deliberate smirk curling his lips.
"See?" His fingers hovered at the back of her neck, brushing an almost imperceptible line along her skin. "There's dirt here." His smile stretched unnervingly, sharp and cold, like a predator delighting in small vulnerabilities.
Fiona's reaction was instant. Her hand shot out, slapping his away. "Learn to keep your hands to yourself!" Her voice rang sharp, controlled, yet trembling with barely restrained fury. Every muscle in her body coiled like a spring, ready to strike if necessary.
Manson leaned back, unbothered, almost languid in his movements. One hand rose slowly to his lips, his fingers brushing over them with calculated precision, eyes glinting with predatory amusement. "Or perhaps you should learn to keep your body clean," he murmured, his voice soft yet laced with teasing menace. "Otherwise who knows where my hands might wander next time?"
Hazel's eyes flickered between them, sharp and alert, a mix of amusement and protective tension tightening her jaw.
Fiona's gaze hardened, ice cutting through the room. She shifted slightly back, lifting her chin to put a measure of distance between them, her voice low and dangerous. "Dare it and you might just find yourself handless."
Manson's smirk deepened, delight flashing in his eyes. He didn't move his hand back immediately just let it hover, teasing, testing, like a blade suspended over danger. The air between them pulsed with unspoken threats, forbidden allure, and maddening anticipation.
"Aww, can't I be a little handsy?" he murmured, lifting his hand and studying it with mock innocence, flexing his fingers as if weighing the idea. His head tilted slightly, eyes glinting with that infuriating, predatory amusement. "My precious can't live a second without me."
Hazel's cheeks flushed, her fingers curling around the edge of the couch as she tried to intervene. Her voice wavered, betraying both exasperation and a hint of playfulness. "H-Hmm… Manson your hands are better intact, of course," she stammered, subtly signaling Fiona to back down.
Fiona's gaze blazed like ice meeting fire. Her body shifted slightly, creating distance, her jaw tight. "Fuck you!" she snapped, the words sharp and biting, cutting through the charged air between them.
Manson's grin widened, dangerously calm. He leaned forward ever so slightly, voice smooth and teasing, a spark of fire in his tone. "Wow, so you know how to swear," he said, letting the words hang like a challenge. "But I don't like fucking little girls."
Hazel pressed a hand to her lips, trying to hide her amusement, while Fiona's chest rose and fell rapidly, her restraint cracking. The room seemed to pulse with electric tension, heavy with the unspoken battle of dominance, desire, and irritation.
Just then, Karen finally emerged from the changing room, dragging what felt like a million years behind her. "Baby, how do I look?" she cooed, eyes sparkling with anticipation.
Manson rose with deliberate slowness, his gaze sharp as he caught her hand in his. "Hot," he said, his voice low and measured, like a verdict that left no room for debate.
Karen didn't hesitate. Her other hand shot around his neck, pulling him close. "Thank you, baby!" she breathed, leaning in, lips nearly brushing his.
But Manson's hand shot up like a striking viper, stopping her just as she leaned in. His fingers hovered against her lips powerful, possessive, and utterly inescapable denying her the kiss.