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“Do you need to use the bathroom before we go?” he asks.
If it’s so that he can stand in the door and watch me pee, “No, thanks.”
His lips curve around a grin, as if he’s recalling a funny memory.
I can’t help myself. With everything that’s happened since yesterday, this is the one, tiny straw that breaks me. “Fuck you.”
He brushes a thumb over his bottom lip as if he’s trying to wipe away his smirk. “Is that all I get for breakfast?”
“What did you expect?”
“Thank you?”
“Thank you,” I say like a bitch.
He puts a wad of bills on the table. “Let’s go.”
Gathering the sugar packets, I shove them in my back pocket.
“What are you doing?”
I frown. “You said let’s go.”
“What are you doing with the sugar?”
It takes me a moment to catch on. It’s been such an automatic reaction for me, I haven’t been conscious of stealing the restaurant’s sugar. A stolen packet of sugar had saved my life—literally—more than once. My cheeks flame with embarrassment as I put the packets back in their container.
He catches my hand. “Keep them if you have an addiction to cane sugar.”
I pull away from his touch. “I don’t.”
This time, I’m the one who starts walking, and he has to follow. I have no idea where I’m going, just that I need to get away from his puzzled stare.
He catches up, falling into step beside me. “I’m not judging you. I just didn’t expect it from you.”
I bet he didn’t. People like me eat in Michelin Star restaurants without looking at the price on the menu. People like me are drilled in table etiquette. People like me don’t go hungry. They don’t look twice at useful sugar packets or wasted bread.
“Hey.” He catches my elbow and brings me to a halt. “Lina, it’s nothing.”
“It’s not fucking nothing.”
His eyes go wide, alert.
Damn it. The last thing I want is to draw his attention to my food stealing habits. I opt for changing the subject. “What are you shopping for?”
The awareness in his eyes doesn’t diminish. If anything, it sharpens, but he doesn’t push me on the subject. “For you.”
“Let me guess.” A bruise starts spreading in my chest. “Clothes.”
“There’s no way you’re living in Anne’s clothes.”
“I didn’t know you disapprove of her style.”
“It’s my job to put clothes on your back.”
“What else is your job?” I snap.
He cups my nape, pulling me closer. His voice is soft, dangerous again. “Are you sure you want me to answer that here?”
I can only shake my head.
As abruptly as he’s touched me, he lets me go. “We have an hour to fit you out. We better get moving.”
An hour later, Damian is armed with enough shopping bags to fill his trunk. Obstinately, I’ve chosen nothing, given him no input as he gathered armfuls of shoes, sandals, underwear, and clothes in my size. Dresses, T-shirts, blouses, they’re all sleeveless or short-sleeved. No jackets to cover them up. It’s as if he’s making a point. I hate the point he’s trying to make, and I hate that I don’t have a say over my own body. Yes, I’m lighter after last night. Yes, I’m relieved my ugly arms are out in the open. That doesn’t mean I want to rub my scars in people’s faces. I’m not that insensitive or naive. I know they’re hard to look at. They’re even harder to ignore.
“Stop brooding,” he says, closing the trunk. “The clothes are pretty. You’ll look pretty.”
“Does my opinion matter?”
“No,” he admits bluntly. As an afterthought, he adds, “At least, not where your body is concerned.”
“You’re crazy.”
“That’s your designation.”
Every muscle in my body draws tight. I’ve been fighting so hard to get my financial independence back, to take the control that has been stolen from me. Reminding me about this part of my history, the part Jack used to declare me incompetent, isn’t something I enjoy.
“Lina.” His voice takes an autocratic edge. “I’m only fooling with you. It was a joke.”
“Bad joke, Damian.”
“You’re right. I’m sorry.”
Why do I find that hard to believe? Without letting me say more, he pushes me into the passenger seat and secures my safety belt, something he seems to have taken responsibility for.
Since we started out early, it’s only mid-morning when he pulls up in front of a white complex. I glance at the medical building, suspicion and fear mixing into a poisonous cocktail in my chest. “What are we doing here?”
He doesn’t answer. He comes around the car, opens the door, and pulls me out.
Arranging the strap of my bag to cross over my chest, I hug it tightly. “Damian?”
This is where I kick in my heels. The last time Harold dropped me off at a clinic, the doctors pumped me full of drugs and kept me on the verge of sanity and starvation.
“Damian, please.”
Tears build in my eyes. I hate them but I can’t stop them. I can’t stop myself from taking two steps back, trying to escape the arms reaching for me.
