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“Why are you helping me?” I ask.
She startles. “Wouldn’t you help me? If you saw me bleeding?”
“What if I’m the cause of the bleeding?” I counter.
Her cheeks heat. It’s not fear. No, fear makes the cheeks pale. The idea of me making her bleed excites her. Her gaze darts back to her work, training on closing my hand so that she doesn’t have to make eye contact with me.
I’ve seen what I needed to see, little one.
“Yes,” I say abruptly, and her eyes meet mine. “I’d help you if you were bleeding.”
She nods, slowly getting her wherewithal to go back to her task, dropping her head.
Silence. An absence of sound. Sound makes life vibrant and worth living. The silence in her home now, as she closes my wound, is mind-numbingly loud. My ears ring and beg for someone to speak. They beg me to speak, but I’m speechless. The girl I’d hunted inside her home last night is painstakingly taking care of me right now, mending the hand I maimed sneaking into her home to do the same thing all over again.
I wonder if it’s her lack of carnal knowledge that makes her so susceptible to being prey. Or is it that I’m a sick fuck, and she’s kind?
“There,” she says, patting the finished, clean hand, as if giving herself a pat on the back for her job well done. And well done it is. My hand is clean, and the wound is closed. I turn it over and examine it.
“Thank you,” I mumble, looking up at her. She’s leaning against the island where the dishwasher sits. The one I used to load for her every night. Her hand rises and lands on her hip, and her face hardens. She’s readying for whatever words she’s about to give me.
“Why have you been following me? Why have you been stalking me?” she asks.
I look down to hide my smirk.
She thinks that I owe her something. Now that she’s fixed me up.
“Little one, I told you. You’re mine.”
She scoffs. “No, I’m not. I’m no one’s property!” she shouts, turning to walk away from me. The one thing in the world I can’t stand, the one thing I never want to see, is her back turned toward me. Unless it’s arched, baring her supple ass in the air for filling.
I move, sliding my hand through her hair, wrapping my hand around the back of her neck, and turning her around, pulling her into me. I tighten my hold as she struggles and grunts, trying to escape.
“Is that so?” I drop my face toward hers, unnerving her as adrenaline overtakes her, confusing her.
“Yes. I’m no ones,” she says, but her voice is sad. Emotion has filled every crevice at her admission, and I long for nothing more than to change the tone. Make her shout with pleasure and forget her fear. Or maybe let fear and pleasure tango together. My little one seems to like the junction where desire meets fear.
“Funny,” I say.
She quirks a brow. “Why is that funny?”
“It’s funny because you damn sure feel like mine.”
I crash my lips to hers, and she doesn’t struggle. No, she gives me back far more than she did the first time I kissed her. My girl is a fast learner. I realize she’s shaking, so I pull back. Looking down, I can see that her right hand is white knuckling the countertop.
Someone hurt her. Someone has hurt her in such a way that even the idea of the passion between us frightens her.
“Who hurt you?” I growl.
She shakes her head, letting a tear escape and closing her eyes as memories flood them.
“Eyes on me, little one.”
Her eyes open, finding mine and holding them.
“Who fucking did this to you?” I snarl.
“I don’t know what you mean,” she lies.
