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I have no idea what possesses me. No idea at all. “Did that hurt?”
His eyes lift and look at me in the reflection, his face blank. It did hurt. I can tell. He was surprised, and his watery eyes suggest pain. “No.” His lips don’t even move, his snappy answer delivered through clenched teeth.
I can’t help it. My cheeks start to pull, and as hard as I try, my smirk can’t be held back. I’m forced to reach up and pinch my nose, feeling laughter rising from my toes. I mustn’t laugh. He’ll likely strangle me if I laugh.
His shoulders rise, he wipes his nose roughly, and he slowly turns to face me, not in the least bit impressed. He’s twitching violently, and I just know it’s because he doesn’t know what to do. Well, actually, he does. Kill me. But he won’t. I’m no good to him dead.
I rein myself in and step back, seeing his muscles engaging. My face straightens quickly, my own muscles becoming alert, ready to fight.
His nose is still dripping. His jaw solid. His eyes wild. Then he’s coming at me fast, and I try desperately to locate the shield that always keeps me safe, that protects me from my life—from the pain, the grief, the plain awful. His arm draws back as he approaches. My shield can’t be found. I close my eyes and brace myself for it.
“Arhhhhh,” I scream, flying into the air and landing on something hard. I’m disorientated, brushing my hair out of my face as I bounce up and down. No sooner have I figured out that he’s flung me onto his shoulder, I’m in the air again, this time landing with a thud on something soft. The bed?
My ankle is seized, and I’m yanked to the edge where he stands. He still looks like a psychopathic killer, but that doesn’t stop me from trying to kick him. He catches my other ankle too, and I wriggle and buck like a mad woman, vehemently trying to fight him off. Then in a quick move, he crosses his arms, therefore my legs too, and I’m spun onto my front, his hand on the back of my neck, applying pressure in a small spot that effectively paralyses me. I actually cannot move, my cheek squished into the pillow.
His face appears, his knee in my back, his entire body holding me in place, but it’s his touch on my neck keeping me still. He looks like he’s been ripping apart a fresh kill, his nose smeared with fresh blood, more still dripping, making a mess of the bed sheets. “I want to fucking kill you.” He brings his face down, closer, allowing me to see the murder etched across it.
What kind of woman ever smirked at such a threat? And from a man like Danny Black? Me. That’s who. I’m certifiably in-fucking-sane. “Then kill me,” I breathe. “And make it slow and painful.”
“What the hell are you?” He’s completely stunned.
“I’m a heartbeat,” I reply simply, staring at him. “I’m nothing, Danny Black. And you are God.” His hold on my neck flexes, but he doesn’t release me. He just gazes at me while he continues to pour blood all over the place, including me. “You’re going to ruin the bed,” I whisper.
“Fuck the bed.”
“You’re going to ruin my clothes.”
“Fuck the clothes.”
“You’re going to ruin me.” I hold my breath and watch as he lets my statement and its meaning sink in. I know it has when he blinks rapidly, as if pulling himself from a daze. He releases me, being quite gentlemanly about it, and pulls me up, before grabbing a pillow and pulling off the cover, wiping his nose.
“You can’t ruin something that’s already broken, Rose.” His words are soft, not cutting, but they still hurt. And he’s wrong. He could destroy me completely. But I don’t challenge him.
Pointing to the wardrobe, Danny takes backward steps toward the door. “Get ready. We’re going out.”
“Where?”
“My boatyard.” He opens the door and leaves, and I remain where I am, my mind racing. He’s taking me? I hurry to the bathroom, flipping the shower on. Then I stare at the drawer for an age, torn. I decide against it. It’s not like I have anything to tell him, anyway.
You can’t ruin something that’s already broken, Rose.
He just has no idea how broken I actually am.
Jeans and a sweater. It seems like a suitable wardrobe choice for a boatyard. The jeans are Armani, low-rise, and hug my ass tightly, and the gray sweater has the Union Jack on it. Very . . . British. Like him. I can only imagine Esther is responsible for my new wardrobe. Who else?
I slip my feet into some tennis shoes and pull my hair into a ponytail as I make my way downstairs, and I nearly tumble down the damn things when I spot him. In a baseball cap. Danny Black in a baseball cap? It’s sounds so very wrong, but it’s looks very right. He’s in jeans too; his are an easy-fit as oppose to my skinny things, and he’s also wearing a sweater. His is navy, emblazoned with the Union Jack too. He looks casual. Relaxed. It suits him. I discreetly pull my British sweater away from my chest to circulate some air as I approach him, my feet careful on the marble steps. I can’t help but wonder if the flag on the front of my sweater, the sweater he had put in my wardrobe, is The Brit making a point. But what point? This is all very . . . couplesy.
