It’s not that I only don’t enjoy the company or require to fake the energy to entertain, my home has always been mine.
I mean that in the sense of every detail, right down to the nook and cranny, has been modified for me.
No fluorescent lighting because it makes me want to rip my eyeballs out. Soundproof rooms to prevent noise from traveling and disturbing my peace. Softly padded hardwood floors with an open space for my pacing.
Everything within these walls allows me to breathe with ease.
And yet the very same can be said for the beauty in my arms.
The safe house proved to no longer be an option for me. Not after what I’ve done. Not after what she's unlocked within me. I’ll answer for my actions soon. And when I do I will be a man without regrets.
“Do you have a thing for carrying women?” She asks, a quizzical brow raised.
I glance down at her. Even hair askew, coated with blood and human remains she’s quite remarkable. Decadent even. I’venever felt the temptation to taste someone before, but I find myself fighting the urge to lick the sweat from her skin.
“No.”
Her lashes bat up at me with exaggeration. “I’m honored.” Her voice oozes in a tartly sweetness that I’ve come to know as her signature sarcasm.
My damn lip twitches.
“I’m perfectly capable of walking,” she grumbles.
“I’m well aware,” I reply dryly.
She insists, pouting like a petulant child, “Then put me down.”
In response I hold her closer. The weight of her against me is comfortable. Too comfortable.Fuck.
I attempt to reason it with rationale and not for my own personal gain. “Your legs are weak. You’ll only stumble and fall like a newborn fawn.”
Her lips twist with distaste. “Is that why you call me gazzella?”
I hadn’t meant to. Truly, I hadn’t. They were mine to keep. Mine to secretly obsess over and over in my head until I got sick of it. Sick of her. Except she’s a hyper fixation I can’t free myself from.
“Don’t go fishing for compliments, Imogen,” I say flatly. Her face sours. I sigh. I further explain, “If I had truly thought of you as a clumsy creature I would’ve called you Bambi, but I didn’t.”
“And gazzella isn’t in the same vein?” She argues. I’m beginning to think she likes to argue for the sake of arguing. At least where I’m concerned. I can’t help but find it. . .amusing. It’s a first. If I think about it too much I’ll only send myself down a rabbit hole.
After doing the retinal scan I carry us inside the elevator that leads straight to my penthouse. As the doors close I can practically feel her anger.
I look down to find her staring at her battered fingers. A mixture of dried and wet blood is buried beneath the nails. An unpleasant feeling turns in my stomach. As if someone has taken a knife and keeps twisting it.
I had felt the same when she was bound to the chair. It left a rotten taste in my mouth.
And the fucking game of Russian Roulette.
There was fire licking my skin then. It had turned my vision a scarlet red. I knew before the game had started that each of those soldiers would be a dead man. But watching the satisfaction upon their faces with each tear or shiver that came from her? That was something that couldn’t be answered for. Death was the only option.
I could chalk up my reaction to a primal instinct. She is my captive. Primally I was only protecting what I had marked as mine.
But I know better.
“You might not have noticed this about yourself,” I begin. Her head slightly tilts upwards to let me know she’s listening. “but I’ve never seen someone move the way you do. Even fighting you’re light on your feet. Quick. Agile. It’s as if you’ve rehearsed every movement to perfection. But that can’t be true. It all just comes naturally to you. The fine balance between delicacy and resilience. The gracefulness of a gazzella.”
There’s a pregnant pause. For the first time in my life I don’t enjoy the silence. I hear my own heart beating in my ear in a maddening rush and I fight the urge to slam my hands over my ears.
She shifts in my arms but I don’t dare look at her. “You can’t say things like that.” She utters softly.
