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She blushes a little. “I’m not going to give you any more trouble.”
I’m guessing the color in her cheeks is due to shame and not shyness. It’s the knock she takes in willingly being the lesser, submitting to a fate she’d otherwise never have chosen. But her shoulders are square, and her head is high. This isn’t surrender. She’s either playing dead or fighting the only way she can, by choosing her battles wisely.
Uncrossing my arms, I move closer. “Is that what you were doing outside on the balcony? Making important decisions?”
She takes a step back. “You saw me?”
“You should’ve dressed warmer. The wind is cold.”
“You’re one to talk. I saw you jumping off that cliff in nothing but your birthday suit.”
“Is your concern for the cold, the jump, or the fact that I was naked?”
“None.” She backtracks when I advance another step. “I’m not concerned about you.”
“No? Then why do you behave like you are?”
“The only thing I’m concerned about is what happens to me if you die.”
Ah. That sours my mood a little, not that I could’ve expected differently. “Right. You should be since I have your passport, not to mention that you’ll be given to Alexis.”
The pink disappears from her cheeks.
“You don’t have to worry your pretty little mind over things like that. I’m not planning on dying soon, and I’m glad we can put the fights aside.” I cup her cheek. I’m going to figure her out, this clever little daisy. “I meant what I said. You can be happy here.”
She nods. “Okay.”
“What made you change your mind?” Jokingly, I add, “Seeing me jump off a cliff?” Had I known it would be this easy, I’d have done it sooner.
She looks away. “The way I behaved reminded me too much of my father.”
Gripping her chin, I turn her face back to me. “The way you behaved how?”
She averts her eyes. “When I slapped you.”
I don’t like where this is going. “What did your father do, Zoe?”
“He was violent.”
My back goes rigid. “With you?”
“Mostly with my mother and Damian, but he broke things, and it scared me.”
I try to picture Zoe as a child, a little girl, scared and defenseless, and I don’t like it. I don’t fucking like it one bit. I admire her for fighting her genes, for wanting to be better. I sure as hell didn’t manage.
“I see.” I drop my hand. “Do I remind you of your father?”
She lifts her gaze back to mine. “No.” Just as my spine relaxes, a sliver of fear creeps into her tone. “You’re in a different league. My father wasn’t a tenth of what you are.”
She fears me more. I both hate and love it. I can’t decide which feeling I want to embrace. Just when I thought I almost had her figured out she confuses me again. Confused isn’t something I’ve ever been. I don’t like it.
Staring at her big, frightened eyes, I move even closer, my body shadowing hers. I want her. I want her fear and pleasure. I want her happiness and submission. I want to take her right here on the stairs. I barely manage to grit out, “Go to bed.”
She doesn’t let me tell her twice. She runs up the stairs like a mouse fleeing from a cat. I stand at the bottom, staring after her while mulling over her words and dissecting my feelings. Making sense of thoughts and sensations is a logical process. I don’t trust my heart. I only trust my mind.
I suppose what she said about being worse than her father is true. I’ve broken a lot more than material things. There’s more blood on my soul than on the hands of a soldier. I suppose I do scare children, and puppies, and pretty little innocent flowers, but I’m neither coward nor fool. Her father was a coward for terrorizing his own daughter and a fool for not seeing the pure, perfect girl right under his eyes.
An insight hits me. Zoe grew up with violence. However wrong that is, she should be used to it, at least to an extent. What I am should scare her, but it shouldn’t surprise her. She shouldn’t be as innocent as she is. She avoided reality. The only means she had of escaping a traumatic childhood was hiding in herself by going someplace else in her head. That’s why Zoe is a dreamer. That’s why she’s a romantic. Her reality was a shithole, but she desperately held out for cupids and happily-ever-after. That’s why she’s a princess, down to the way she dresses.
Warfare is an art. It requires a certain finesse. There’s little finesse in slaying your enemy by cutting off his head. It’s much more challenging to turn him into an ally. It’s much more rewarding to have your enemy worship at your feet. This new insight tells me exactly what my strategy with Zoe should be. I’m not going to be her father. I won’t allow her to live in her head where she can hide from me. In the art of warfare, it’s crucial to know your enemy’s vulnerability. Now that I know hers, I’ll fill that gap. I’ll give her what she most wants. Before her time here is up, she’ll be eating out of my hand. When the time comes to set her free, she’ll beg me to stay. Yes, I like this outcome much better than keeping her chained with threats. My chest heats just thinking about it. My cock hardens at the challenge.
