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17CristinaSilvery moonlight spills in from the large window. Blood crusts on my skin, dries on my dress.
I stopped struggling an hour ago, and now I wish I could sleep. I wish I could just sleep and forget even for a little while.
Instead, I lie here waiting, watching the door. And I think about the way he looked at me when he bound me. His face when he told me I needed to learn to do as I was told before I got hurt.
What a strange thing to say, considering he’s the one who hurts me.
I think about him downstairs. His hand around my neck. His level of control.
He can snap my neck, I’m sure of it. All it would take would be a twist of his wrist, and I’d be dead.
I close my eyes welcoming sleep as it slowly comes. I’m not sure how much time passes when a sound I’ve become attuned to startles me fully awake. It’s the lock turning in the door.
I gasp, my heartbeat picking up. How long have I been lying here? My shoulders are sore, and I stink of old wine and blood.
I try to sit up, at least I pull myself up a little but freeze when the door opens. Damian stands there, the darkness behind him, the moon casting a strange shade of gray across his face, making his eyes appear inhuman, otherworldly.
He isn’t wearing shoes, which strikes me as odd for some reason. It’s so normal a thing to be barefoot inside your house, but on him, it’s out of place.
In his uninjured hand, he holds a nearly empty bottle of whiskey. The other one has a bandage wrapped around it. From here, I can see that it’s pink in the palm of his hand.
I stabbed him. How in hell did I even do that?
His expression doesn’t change as he enters, then closes the door behind him. He holds my gaze but says nothing.
Is he here to punish me? Has he cooled off enough to do it now? Because I think he’s as dangerous calm as he is when volatile. Maybe more so.
I watch him cross the room, slate eyes on me as he turns the armchair I’d pushed in front of the window to face the bed and sits down.
No, he doesn’t exactly sit down. He drops himself onto the chair, and I wonder how full that bottle was when he started, as he brings it to his lips.
Liquid sloshes against glass when he drops his arm, and it hangs off the chair while he wipes his mouth with the back of his other hand.
I expect him to say something. Or maybe he expects me to say something. But neither of us speak as he sits there drinking his whiskey and watching me. It’s the most unsettling thing. I wish he’d talk. Say anything. Yell. Punish me, if that’s what he wants. Just get on with it.
He’s taken his suit jacket off and his shirtsleeves are folded up to his elbows, revealing muscular forearms and olive skin dusted with dark hair. He’s strong. I thought that when he took his sweater off in the bathroom too. Built big like someone who does manual labor. I pegged him to be more of an office man in his business suits, but then again, there are those calluses on his hands.
His expression changes, and he almost grins, then shakes his head. It’s as if he’s having a conversation in his head. A conversation about me.
His gaze slides over me, and I follow its progress. The dress is ruined. I’m sure no amount of stain remover will get rid of either the blood or the wine.
We stay like this for a long time. Well past awkward discomfort if it ever could be that with us. I’m getting fidgety and wish he’d get it over with.
But when he finally stands, my breath hitches and my heart rate picks up.
Here it comes.
I manage to put another inch between us as he finishes the last of the liquid in the bottle. He makes his way to the bed, and I think how steady he is, considering the amount he’s probably drunk. He sets the bottle down so loudly on the nightstand it’s startling.
When he puts a knee on the bed, I try to move farther away, but neither the bonds nor he allow me to. He reaches an arm out, hand closing around my middle to tug me closer to him.
“It’s ruined,” he says, and my eyes follow his over the dress.
“Are you drunk?”
He looks at me. “You’re trouble, Cristina.”
“Uncuff me, Damian.” I try to sound calm. Like I’m somewhat in control of anything at all.
“More trouble than I counted on.”
“What did you expect? A good prisoner?” I can’t help myself even though my brain is screaming for my mouth to shut up and not provoke him.
