But she’s… not as abrasive as before.
“Like what?”
“Like thinking you can slip away while I'm asleep.” I lean back, casual, but my voice drops. “You're not going anywhere, lass. Not without me.”
She holds my gaze over the rim of her glass, color rising in her cheeks again. But she doesn't pull away, doesn’t flinch. Instead, she tilts her head just slightly, exposing her pale throat. I want to sink my teeth into it.
She frowns down at her ankle. “Hmm. Do you reckon it’s broken?”
“Don’t think so,” I say, looking down at it. I kneel in front of her.
My hand wraps around her ankle, so delicate I could snap it with barely a thought, and she shivers. Not from fear. I know fear. I've seen it in countless eyes, tasted it in the air.
This is something else entirely.
Her skin pebbles with goose bumps, spreading up her calf like wildfire.
She lets me touch her and doesn’t fight it. Just watches me with those dark eyes, like she's trying to solve the puzzle of what I am.
“Doesn't look like it.” I run my thumb along the bone. “If it were broken, it'd be at an odd angle. It'd be swollen to fuck. It's not that bad, just painful. I think you got yourself a right good bruise.”
“That makes two then,” she mutters, before her pretty cheeks flush pink again and she looks away.
Fuck.
I can't help the heat in my gaze as I look at her and imagine my handprint bruised across the perfect curve of her arse cheeks, branded there like a claim.
“Good,” I murmur as my cock aches behind my zipper. “That ought to fucking teach you.”
Her cheeks flush a deeper pink, spreading down herthroat.
“Why were you with your family?” she asks suddenly. “Do you have an obligation?”
“Why do you ask?”
“Trying to make conversation,” she says.
But she's not. She's trying to dig for information, testing the boundaries of what I'll tell her.
“We had legal matters to tend to for my brother,” I say quickly. Too quickly. I shouldn't tell her that I have a brother who died. I shouldn't tell her anything about Donovan. If she figures out that I'm a fucking McCarthy…
Could she hate me any more than she already does?
Absolutely.
But nothing resembling recognition lights her eyes. Thank fuck.
She pushes the plate aside. “Did I eat enough for you? It's like you're fattening me up like Hansel and Gretel.”
“I'm not trying to change anything about you, lass,” I say quietly, meaning every word. “You’re already fucking perfect.”
“Why do you keep saying things like that?” she whispers.
“Because if I say it often enough, eventually, you’ll believe it.”
She stifles a yawn, her hand coming up to cover her mouth as she averts hereyes. “I'm tired.”
“Aye?” I study her, noting the shadows under her eyes. “The ankle hurts like a motherfucker, right?”
