I gulp, hypnotized by his gentle strokes that could lull me into telling him anything.
“I tripped,” I whisper.
His stony gaze bores into my heart, piercing my soul. Looking around with the hawk eyes of a detective at a crime scene, he arches a brow—a clear indicator that he doesn’t believe me. A muscle in his jaw ticks. He will lose his patience any second now. He needs to find the culprit and make him pay for hurting me. It’s him, but if I confess, I will lose him.
I’d rather be in pain for the rest of my days than go through life without him.
I need to open my mouth and give him a reason, but I can’t. I know it’s wrong, but I punish him with my silence.
His jaw clenches hard enough that it might break his molars. “Don’t bother. We both fucking know it’s me. I’m the reason. I should stop coming and upsetting you.”
Sighing deeply, he lifts me from the ground with ease.
This man dabbles with death, doesn’t even flinch at the sight of gore. I think he likes violence a bit too much, yet he pales when he sees my scraped knees and palms. My silk dress is ripped and bloodied where the glass cut.
A forlorn look stretches across his face, making me instantly react.
“Do that. We both know you will crawl back,” I blurt out to bring him back and far away from those days.
These bouts of confidence are regular with him, but I reserve searching for a fight with him for moments like this, thinking that if I push him enough, one day he will react differently.
“Crawl back,” he groans low. “Interesting choice of words.”
He carries me to the sofa, where he places me down gently. I can’t help rolling my eyes. If he could, he’d wrap me in layers of silk and cotton. Not even air could touch me long enough to cause any harm.
Even on his knees, he looks like a sculpture of physical male perfection—primal, rough, formidable. Imposing with his broad shoulders, muscles rippling beneath his suit jacket. A chiseled face that makes his sinful lips more kissable, those silver eyes more lethal. The perfect arch of his brow is more vicious.
I could contemplate this man forever, and I would never tire of the sight.
His dirty brown hair and his spicy scent infused with leather notes make me want to hold on to the thick strands and bathe in his luxurious scent. He intoxicates me.
He removes his jacket, and in his black shirt, the contours of his delectable chest are revealed. How I’d like to trace my hands over each inch, kiss my way into his heart, and demand forgiveness for my tainted blood that cost him so much.
His jaw sharpens at my open gawking. Tension spreads its threads around us like ivy and is just as confining. With each second, it gets harder to breathe.
He made himself the monster in our story. The villain who tarnished the princess. He doesn’t care about my side of the story. That he saved said princess. And I have nothing to forgive him for. It’s always the other way around.
“You’re not the villain. You never were,” I sigh, almost choking on the heavy air filled with yearning.
A muscle in his jaw tics as if it could pop my desire. “Don’t.”
“Will we ever talk about that?” I whisper, fidgeting with my hands in my lap.
I don’t even know why I insist. He’s a cliff, unmoving, impossible to break. Physically and emotionally.
He rushes to rummage through the small cabinet in the bathroom, returning with some disinfectant and pads. He cleans my wounds diligently, making sure no shards are left in my skin.
His heady scent fills my lungs.
His overwhelming presence inundates my being.
He owns me—every heartbeat, every breath, every thought.
And I own his misery.
That’s how it is.
That’s how it will always be.
