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He turns redder than a dragon on the verge of spitting fire. The backhand that connects with my cheek doesn’t come as a surprise. Neither does the blood that runs in a trickle from my nose. I’m familiar with this particular pain and its symptoms.
He pales a little, as if he knows he’s gone too far. There will be bruises.
He pushes his finger in my face. “A word about this to Dami, and I’ll tear you apart at every chance I get, do you hear me?”
Wiping the blood away with the back of my hand, I give him the coldest look I can muster. “Hit me again, and I won’t ask Damian to cut off your finger. I’ll do it myself.”
I limp past him, physically bruised but feeling mentally strong.
“You talk,” he says to my back, “and I’ll tell Dami what you’re searching for. You’ve seen for yourself what he does to thieves and traitors.”
I don’t stop to deny or acknowledge the words. He’s right. If Damian knows I’m looking for the evidence, he’ll be furious. The day I find it, he may just chop off more than my fingers.
After taking two painkillers, I shower to wash away the chlorine and blood, and pull on one of the new nightdresses Damian bought. The silk is tight around my breasts and hips, making me feel exposed, but at least it reaches all the way to my toes. Covering myself with a robe, I venture downstairs when I’m certain there’s no one in the kitchen to prepare a tray I take back to Damian’s room. I’m not hiding from Zane or Anne, but the splitting headache and ache in my hip demand I lie down.
I must’ve dozed off. When I wake, it’s dark. The space next to me in bed is empty. I flick on the bed lamp and check the time on my phone. It’s after midnight. For an insane moment, my reflex reaction is to worry. I chuck the sentiment as quickly as it forms. Damian doesn’t deserve my concern. Concern would mean I care. A noise coming from downstairs jolts me from my thoughts. The old pipes creak as the water in the guest bathroom turns on.
Getting to my feet, I pad to the top of the stairs. Light from the bathroom in the hall falls across the floor. The grandfather clock in the dining room strikes an hour at which gilded couches would’ve already turned into pumpkins. The stairs don’t creak under my feet. The bristle hairs of the carpet runner in the hallway tickle the underside of my toes. The water turns off. I stop at the open door.
Damian stands over the basin, his hands gripping the edges and his head hanging between his shoulders. His back is turned to me, but I have a good view of him in the waist-high mirror. He’s shirtless, only wearing the dress pants and shoes from earlier. A deep line defines his triceps. His big arms bulge. His abdomen is a hard slab of six-pack muscle. Even his sides are perfectly cut, like an athlete’s. The line of his spine is an indent that runs between broad shoulders and toughened flesh. A lock of dark hair falls over his face, obscuring his expression, but his jaw is clenched, and his grip on the porcelain hard. Whatever he’s battling is weighing heavily on him.
Unaware of my presence, he stands perfectly still in this bowed position, giving me time to study him. Is this what Anne sees when she looks at him? Hard, male perfection. Strength and domination. Hands with bruised knuckles that know how to cradle a body gently and pin hips down hard. Lips that know when to ambush and when to whisper kisses over forbidden places. My breathing picks up and that forbidden place Damian has so skillfully mastered starts to tingle. For the first time, I see him like other women see him. I imagine those hands and lips on them, loving their bodies for the joy of pleasure instead of the satisfaction of revenge, and a hurtful flutter tightens my ribs. It’s the first time I feel jealousy. The sensation catches me so off-guard I impulsively place a hand on my diaphragm where it aches.
The action draws Damian’s attention. He turns his head a fraction. His face is mostly basked in shadows, but I can make out the intensity in his eyes. He seems both savage and gentle as he regards me in silence. A strange, new awareness passes between us. It feels like a jumbled mixture of physical attraction and emotions. The pieces are broken and scattered. For the life of me, I can’t fit them together to form a clear picture. What’s happening to us?
He’s the one who breaks the silence. “What are you doing up? It’s late.”
