His hand reached out and gripped my jaw, squeezing and dragging my face to meet his in a move I’d quickly become accustomed to. My eyes narrowed at him and his narrowed right back at me.
“You’re a real bitch, you know that.”
“And you’re an asshole.” I shook my head from his grip and his hand fell to my collarbone.
“So you’ve said,” he drolled, his gaze slipping to where his hand lay on my bare skin. His fingers took a lock of my hair in them and he twirled it in thought. “Fine. Stitch my head. You try and do anything stupid and I’ll cut your fucking fingers off.”
I didn’t feel like I’d won, and yet I had.
“Death by tiny needle?” I scoffed. “Whatever.”
He stood up and left the room, coming back several minutes later. I watched as he limped back toward the bed. There were oil marks smeared down his jeans and dirt smeared across his torn T-shirt: all the signs of a bike accident. My gaze assessed him quickly, watching how he held his arm.
“You crash your bike?” I asked, and his scowl deepened.
“No talking.”
“I was just asking—,”
He glowered at me and I stopped talking and rolled my eyes. He sat down on the side of the bed and placed a small box of medical supplies next to me. He reached under his T-shirt, to the band of his jeans, and pulled a small knife out to cut away the rope on my wrists. I pushed myself up to sitting, rolling my shoulders and wrists a couple of times before reaching for the box and pulling out some antiseptic wipes. I reached up and dabbed one against the cut on his head. The cut was really deep, and it had to have hurt as the antiseptic cleaned it, but he didn’t flinch. His gaze stayed trained on me, watching my every move in case I tried to run.
There was blood down his T-shirt, and a large stain seeped from near his rib cage. I nodded toward it. “Can I check that?”
He grunted a response and I reached down with shaking hands and lifted up his T-shirt. He might have had a broken rib or two, by the looks of the purple bruising forming. Road rash covered most of his left side, and though it didn’t need stitches, it’d need cleaning or it’d get infected.
“I need to clean this,” I said to him. I held the T-shirt up and started to clean the scrapes for him, pulling out gravel and dirt as carefully as I could. The T-shirt fell and with shaking hands I pulled it back up. He tutted and gripped the bottom of it in his hands before tearing it up the middle and sliding it off his shoulders.
I glanced up at him, seeing his impassive stare watching me carefully. “Such a caveman,” I deadpanned.
“Such an exhibitionist,” he retorted, and embarrassment flushed my features. He was talking about last night when I’d touched myself but I tried to ignore the heat in my cheeks and focus on the task in hand.
My gaze moved to the door, seeing that he’d left it wide open. I could run. Dive over the bed and out the door, locking it behind me, and be out of there before he could do anything. I’d run track in school, and I’d kept myself in shape since then so I didn’t doubt that we were evenly matched if I tried. Not to mention that he was injured at the moment. It was fifty fifty on if I’d make it to the door before he did.
“Don’t,” he warned, and I looked back at him.
I swallowed and grabbed some more antiseptic wipes before continuing to clean his cuts. His body was beautiful, even beaten up and torn to shreds like it was. He was carved and chiseled to perfection. Tanned skin peppered with scars—slices and burns of all shapes and sizes that told hundreds of stories, stories I wanted to know but knew there was no point in asking about. His muscles were toned and alluded to not just his visible strength but strength that was hidden and rippled just beneath the surface. Jesus, he was perfect; why did he have to be one of my daddy’s enemies? Not that I’d be allowed to pick my own old man anyway. I’d learned that lesson the hard way. And so had every man that had ever looked my way.
God, what was I even talking about?
He wasn’t old man material.
He was a brute.
A kidnapper.
A murderer.
A psychopath.
He was the fucking Devil, my dark angel, a monster!
No one in their right mind had desires to seduce the Devil and then expect to stay alive.
I glanced back to the door, my tongue darting out to dampen my lips. Freedom was only a couple of steps away, but my dark angel was in front of me, weakened, vulnerable, and beautiful. I should run. I should get the hell away from him while I could. Who knew what he planned on doing next. Death was only ever a heartbeat away in this life.
“Lay down,” I said, my voice coming out stern when I felt anything but. Like him, I felt weakened and vulnerable.
He raised a cocky eyebrow at me, his eyes blazing with desire.
