She shakes her head at me. “Why do I get the feeling that you’re a difficult student?”
I fix my features in an expression of mock-disappointment. “I’ll have you know that I was head boy at Eton.”
Her brows lift. “Is that supposed to mean something in American English?”
She’s not impressed by my posh upbringing, and I’m starting to realize that I like this about her. There’s a reason I left all that bullshit behind and moved thousands of miles away from my family and their expectations of me.
I shrug. “No, it doesn’t mean anything, really. Other than the fact that I’m a model student.”
She takes the final sip of her champagne, and I gesture at the empty glass. “Another?”
“No, thank you.” Her refusal is perfectly polite, but I’m not going to accept an end to our evening anytime soon.
“Ah, yes. Your strawberry daiquiri.” I say it with warm indulgence, savoring yet another of her secrets. Her love of sweet treats is charming, if a bit superficial.
She will surrender all of her secrets to me eventually. I’m enjoying getting to know her on this date, but I crave so much more. She already belongs to me—body, heart, and soul.
She will accept the truth soon enough.
I grasp her hand and start leading her toward the bar. “I’m buying the drinks. Order whatever you want.”
Her fingers tense around mine. “No, thank you.”
“I want to pay,” I insist, dismissing her resistance. “I want to take care of you, Abigail.”
She allowed me to buy her cosmopolitans on the night we first met, despite her initial resistance. She will accept the fact that I will take care of her in every way, and there’s no point in playing games about who will get the check.
I squeeze her hand in a pulse of reassurance and step into her personal space.
She flinches, and my chest tightens.
Fine lines have drawn deep around her eyes and mouth, a private anguish I don’t fully understand.
My mind races through our past interactions about money. She was upset when I tried to buy her paintings at the market. And she’s deeply uncomfortable with allowing me to pay for something as trivial as a cocktail.
She doesn’t trust me to take care of her. She’s afraid of relying on me financially for some reason.
I can’t stop my muscles from flexing with unspent aggression at the revelation.
Some bastard hurt her in the past, and that’s getting in my way of winning her trust.
Her abuser will face my retribution. It’s only a matter of time before I get his name.
Then I can work out some of these unpleasant feelings of frustration and resentment. I’ll extract my revenge in blood and soothe myself with his screams.
The memory of the wild rush that’d overtaken me when I beat the thief flashes through my mind. The power and savagery of the violent moment had been the most ecstatic high I’ve ever experienced.
“Who hurt you, Abigail?” The question is a rough demand.
She pales, unnerved rather than comforted.
Fuck.
She tugs her hand free from mine.
“I have an early shift tomorrow,” she says instead of answering my intense query. “I really should go home.”
I consider her for a long moment, wrestling down the impulse to compel her confession. If I just step a little closer to her and thread my fingers through her silken hair, I could capture her lips and kiss her into submission. She’ll tell me anything on breathy little sighs and pleas if only I’ll grant her more pleasure.
