Fake Date, Real Fate
Chapter 162: Unveiling Us [III]

Chapter 162: Unveiling Us [III]

My mouth fell open. "You arrogant—"

I stared at him.

That vein in his neck. The way his jaw flexed when he swallowed. The casual arrogance dripping from his words, even as the room held the charged silence of something on the edge of breaking.

He thought I wouldn’t?

That I’d just sit back like a good little patient while he had teased and tormented and played gatekeeper to the one damn thing I craved—him?

Two could play this game. Hehe.

He leaned back like he hadn’t just said something utterly infuriating, like he wasn’t watching me with those dark, knowing eyes—daring me. Testing me.

If he could play dirty, so could I.

So I smiled.

Then I shifted under the covers, pulling the blanket away. Slowly and deliberately. The thin hospital gown I was wearing was instantly visible, offering little to the imagination. I saw his eyes track the movement, a flicker of something raw and intense crossing his face before he masked it.

My fingers went to the hem of the gown, and I started to slide it upwards, just an inch, and then two. The fabric slid against my thighs. The air in the room thickened, crackling with unspoken tension.

His jaw tightened, that vein in his neck throbbing visibly. He didn’t move, but his entire body seemed to coil, like a predator ready to pounce. "What do you think you’re doing?" he asked, his voice rougher now, a dangerous edge to it.

"What does it look like, Mr. Walton?" I countered, my voice surprisingly steady despite the frantic beat of my heart against my ribs. I pulled the gown higher, revealing more of my leg, slowly, provocatively. "You said I was overstimulated. I’m just trying to... remedy that."

His eyes, usually so controlled, were wide now, pupils dilated as he tracked my every move. He swallowed hard, his gaze dropping to where the gown now rode high on my thighs, then back up to my face, a battle raging in their depths.

"Isabella," he said warningly.

I gave him my sweetest, most innocent smile, though my body was screaming with nerves and excitement. "What?" My fingers brushed the elastic band of my underwear, just barely. A small, almost imperceptible shiver ran through him.

He inhaled sharply. "Isabella, I swear to God—"

My lips curled into a playful smirk. "You swear to God what, Mr. Walton?" I pulled the gown up a fraction more.

His silence was deafening.

That sharp inhale. That twitch of his fingers against the edge of the mattress. That vein in his neck that throbbed like it was ticking down to something reckless.

I didn’t stop.

I arched one brow, lifted the gown a little higher. The lace of my underwear was fully visible now—delicate, barely-there black against the pale skin of my thigh. I knew exactly what I was doing.

So did he.

His voice was gravel when it came. "Pull it down."

"No."

My soft refusal hung in the air, a delicate thread of defiance stretching taut between us. Adrien’s eyes, already dilated, flared wider. For a long, charged moment, he simply stared, his jaw working, the muscle ticking furiously. His perfect composure, so infuriatingly maintained, fractured.

"Isabella," he repeated.

"I just thought," I said, voice sweet, "if you won’t help, I might as well take care of myself."

His jaw clenched. "You wouldn’t."

I arched a brow. "Try me."

My hand slid down my thigh, dangerously close to the edge of my underwear. His hand, which had been resting casually on his knee, clenched into a white-knuckled fist. The remote control, forgotten on the bedside table, was miles away from his reach. His eyes snapped to mine, burning with an inferno of desire and something akin to disbelief that I had dared him this far.

"You pulled away," I said simply. "Now I’m pulling you back."

"I’m not a toy, Isabella."

"No," I said, dragging the word out softly. "You’re the man who kissed down my neck and whispered how loud he could make me scream...and then ran."

"I didn’t run──we already talked about this," he growled.

I tilted my head. "Then why did you stop?"

His silence was the only answer I needed.

"I’m not fragile," I whispered. "Not anymore. The doctor said I’m recovering fast. Stronger than yesterday, remember?" I let my legs part a little more, a silent invitation.

My hand moved again, a deliberate, teasing stroke that made my hips instinctively tilt into it.

"Get your hand out from there, Isabella. Now."

I didn’t.

Not right away.

I gave him one moan a low, deliberate sound that was part pleasure, part provocation──then I dragged my hand back up, deliberately slow.

"See?" I said innocently. "I’m recovering just fine."

The silence that followed was different. It wasn’t charged anymore; it was the dead, heavy air before a lightning strike. The amusement was gone from his face, wiped clean and replaced by a raw, predatory darkness that made the previous flirtation feel like child’s play. He didn’t move for a full second, his eyes locked on mine, and in their depths, I saw his carefully constructed control shatter into a million jagged pieces.

Then he moved.

It wasn’t a step, it was a surge. He was out of the chair and at my bedside in a single, fluid motion, the air crackling around him. He clamped my wrists to the mattress. The flimsy gown was a forgotten whisper against my skin. He loomed over me, his body a cage of heat and muscle.

"You think this is a game, Isabella?" he rasped, his breath fanning across my lips. "You have no idea what you’re provoking."

But I saw it in his eyes. He wasn’t just warning me—he was warning himself, too.

"Maybe I want to find out," I challenged, my voice trembling only slightly.

For a heart-stopping second, I thought he was going to kiss me again, to finish what he started and damn the consequences. But instead, a muscle in his jaw jumped. With a curse that was ripped from his chest, he released my wrist, stepping back as if burned. He ran a hand through his perfectly styled hair, messing it up in a way that was utterly arresting.

"Fine," he bit out, the word sharp and final. "You want to play? Let’s play."

He snatched his phone from his pocket, his thumb moving with furious speed across the screen. He held it up, showing me a new text message he was composing.

To: Dr. Kassel. Subject: Isabella’s Vitals elevated. Requesting immediate assistance. She seems to be in some distress.May require sedation.

He wasn’t bluffing.

My blood ran cold. He met my horrified gaze, his own eyes burning with a reckless, challenging light.

"Sedation?" My voice was a strangled gasp, the word barely a whisper. My blood ran cold, replacing the fire that had just been consuming me. I stared at the phone in his hand, then at his face, trying to find a flicker of the man who had been so close, so intense moments ago. There was nothing. Just a mask of professional, almost clinical calm. The dark intensity in his eyes was still there, but now it was cold, calculating.

"You wouldn’t," I choked out, pushing myself up slightly, the hospital gown shifting precariously. The playful defiance had drained from me, replaced by a surge of pure, unadulterated shock and fury.

"I’m giving you to the count of three to get yourself under control, princess," he said, his voice deadly calm. His thumb hovered over the send button. "Or we can see what the good doctor thinks of your ’miraculous’ recovery."

"One."

The word hung in the sterile air, a single, sharp shard of ice dropping into the heat we had built. My breath hitched. All the playful fire, the exhilarating thrill of the chase, vanished in an instant, snuffed out by the cold, clinical threat in his hand.

He wasn’t playing anymore. This wasn’t a game of seduction. It was a power play, pure and simple, and he had just drawn a weapon I couldn’t possibly fight.

"Two." His voice was flat, like he’d already decided.

His voice was flat, devoid of the passion that had thickened it moments before. It was the voice he used for business negotiations, the one that left no room for argument. My hands, which had been frozen on my thighs, moved automatically. Slowly, with a deliberate lack of the seduction I’d employed before, I tugged the hem of the gown down. The cheap cotton scraped against my skin, feeling rough and insulting now. I smoothed it over my knees, a gesture of neat, final submission.

His thumb stopped hovering over the screen. Then, slowly—like he was forcing himself through every motion—he lowered the phone. The message remained unsent.

His hand trembled—just once—before he shoved the device back into his pocket.

"I won’t sedate you," he said finally, his voice soft now. "But if you touch yourself again like that in front of me—while knowing I can’t finish it—I’ll do something worse than sedation."

I blinked, mouth parting. "Worse?"

He leaned in.

Not touching, not yet. Just close enough that the heat of his words ghosted across my lips.

"I’ll leave."

It landed like a bullet.

"I’ll walk out that door and won’t come back until your discharge papers are in hand."

My heart kicked wildly against my ribs. My fingers tightened on the sheets.

"I hate you," I whispered, because the alternative would’ve been please don’t go.

His smirk was slow. Dangerous.

"No, sweetheart." He brushed a knuckle over my cheek. "You need me."