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It was just a line, but he looked so handsome as he said it that I felt warm inside. “You’re smooth.”
“Guess I’m a natural.” He looked at the ceiling again, his dark hair messy from the way I’d played with it. “As much as I’d like to stay, the night is young.”
“You’re like a vampire.”
He gave a slight smirk. “I’d definitely feed on you if I were.” He left the bed and stood up, his chiseled body fine in the limited light. He had a tight ass, a sculpted back, and a bunch of veins all over his arms. He started to get dressed, covering his beautiful body with his clothes.
I wanted him to stay—but I’d never ask.
I got out of bed and tied my robe around my body.
He stilled as he looked at me, clearly thinking about the first time he’d come over and I was dressed in nothing but the black lace. Consternation spread across his handsome face, and it seemed like he might change his mind and stay.
But he didn’t.
I walked him to the door, his heavy boots thudding against the hardwood floor.
“I gotta ask.”
He turned to me, his chin dipped to look down at me.
“What’s with the boots?”
He cocked his head slightly, letting the silence linger as he regarded me with those earth-colored eyes.
“I mean, they’re combat boots.”
“You really want to know why?” He challenged me, his eyes flicking back and forth between mine.
Now I wasn’t sure.
He kneeled and pulled out a four-inch knife stashed away in a single compartment. He turned it over in his hand, showing its razor-sharp edge. “That’s not all.” He kneeled again and quickly removed the lace from his boots. He stood upright again, tightening the strands around both of his wrists, and then he hooked the lace behind my neck and tugged me close so he could kiss me. “That’s why.” He let me go then re-laced his boots quickly, like he’d done it a hundred times. The knife was stowed away, and he was back on his feet. “Good night, sweetheart.” He stepped into the hallway.
“Bartholomew?”
He halted then slowly turned to regard me again. He always had a straight posture, his broad shoulders back, his eyes intense. Patiently, he waited for me to speak, even though the underworld required his attention.
“Thanks for…not treating me differently.” He showed his sympathy, but he didn’t treat me like a victim. Instead of acting like I was damaged goods or irreparable, he carried on as if it were nothing more than a scratch on my knee. The ordeal was a traumatizing experience, but the way my husband treated me afterward was far more traumatizing. He was the one who made me feel…dirty.
Bartholomew stared at me for a while, like it took him a moment to even understand what I was thanking him for. “Your ex is just as bad as the men who did that to you. I thought about killing him too—but I knew you would say no.”
“You’re really going to kill them?”
“Did you think it was a joke?”
“No. I just… It’s not your problem.”
“Not my problem?” His voice turned cold. “For as long as this lasts, I’m your man. So, yes, it is my goddamn problem. I will kill every one of them, and before I do, they’ll be begging me to finish the job.”
I almost felt bad for them. “What if they have families—”
“I don’t care. I will stomp on their heads until their skulls shatter and their brains are all over the floor. Then I’ll do the next one—and then the next. Oh, and that’s another reason I wear these…just didn’t think you’d want to know that.”
* * *
“What’s the occasion?” I stood at the counter as I spoke to a client on the phone.
“Another one of those charity galas…”
