Page 13 of The Thug And His Doll

“Your room is to the right at the far end of the corridor,” he says, handing me the keycard.

“Thanks,” I mumble, taking it from him. Picking up my suitcase, I walk down the hallway.

“If you place the keycard in the holder to the right of the door, it will automatically turn on the lights,” Drix instructs from behind me.

I feel his presence like a wall of heat, and even though I’m not a short woman, standing at five foot nine, I feel tiny in his presence. There’s something about that which makes me feel simultaneously fearful and protected. It’s a feeling I don’t particularly like.

Forcing myself to move, I push open the door and place the keycard in the holder. The room is immediately flooded with soft lighting, and by room, I mean suite.

“This is…” My voice trails off as I step into the huge space that’s larger than the entire footprint of the house I’d left behind.

“Where you’ll be very comfortable,” Drix finishes for me, striding towards the bed with Toby who is fast asleep in his arms.

He lays him down on the huge bed on the far side of the room, and Toby immediately rolls over, snuggling into the soft pillows and plush eiderdown. I watch as Drix pulls the throw that’s folded at the end of the bed, over his body.

“There we go, kid,” he mutters, gently brushing his knuckles over Toby’s cheek before turning to face me.

My heart pangs inside my chest, and I swallow down the lump in my throat at the kind gesture. I don’t ever remember an occasion when Martin had been as sweet to Toby.

“This must cost a fortune to stay at,” I exclaim, avoiding his penetrating gaze as I cast my eyes around the opulent suite.

The polished wooden floors are buffed to perfection, the walls a dusky pink and the furniture and soft furnishings an expensive cream. Carefully selected paintings are hung on the walls, the art abstract but tasteful. Even the fixtures and fittings are gold instead of plastic. Every inch of this space is stunningly thought out and highly inappropriate for a five year old rambunctious boy. Fortunately for everyone we’re only here for the night, and Toby is sleeping peacefully.

“Dalton likes to impress the women he brings up here,” Drix says, almost apologetically.

“I see,” I reply, not sure what else to say to that. From the little I’ve heard, Dalton sounds like a womaniser, and someone I’d avoid at all costs.

“I could show you around, make sure you know where everything is?” Drix offers, tucking his hands in his jean pockets, his dark eyes seeking mine.

“I can figure it out by myself,” I reply, chewing on my lip and feeling more than a little overwhelmed by his kindness. I don’t understand it. Not at all.

“Of course you can…” His voice trails off as he stares at me.

I don’t really know what to do next. This whole night has been an ordeal, and I just need a moment to gather myself. To think.

“Well, I think I’ll take a shower then get some rest.”

“Right, yes. Of course,” he replies, stepping towards me, his huge frame suddenly even more intimidating now that I’m alone in a room with him.

I back up as he approaches, feeling more and more uncertain the closer he gets. He seems to be a decent man, and has been nothing but kind, and yet I can’t bring myself to relax in his presence. I didn’t use to be like this, so… frightened. I hate that about myself. I hate that I allowed myself to get to this point.

“The fridge is full of soft drinks. There’s a tea and coffee machine,” he says, pointing to the plush kitchenette behind me. “And there’s a menu by the phone if you want to order some room service. Don’t worry about the cost, that’s all covered.”

“I don’t want to owe you anymore than I do already,” I say, raising my chin with as much dignity as I can muster.

“You don’t owe me a damn thing, Lia,” he replies softly, and I feel tears clogging my throat at his kindness. A kindness that I simply can’t bring myself to trust.

He steps closer, slowly, hesitantly, and I force myself to stand still even though every part of me is telling me to back up, to put space between us.

“Do you have a phone?” he asks.

“I do.”

“Let me add my number to it. Just in case you need me.”

“Need you?” I question, my gaze snapping up to meet his.

Something about the gruffness of his voice and the intensity of his stare makes me question his intentions once again. I hate feeling like this, oscillating between wary gratitude and fear. If it’s confusing to me, then God knows what it must be like to be on the receiving end.

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