Did I sleep with Blade last night?
Fuck. I can’t begin to wrap my head around that situation. Surely, I’d know if we, well…
The sad fact is, it wouldn’t be the first time I woke up next to a man with no recollection of how I got there and what happened between us. Only the dull ache inside me and the pain enlightened me, with bruises usually on my wrists, my neck, and my face; not to mention the agony I felt inside.
Not today, though. It reassures me knowing I haven’t been abused in my drug-fueled haze. For once, anyway.
A door slams from somewhere outside the bedroom door, causing me to jump. The dull tread of a heavy boot causes my pulse to spike.
My heart races, anxiety crushing any bravery I may have enjoyed in the past, and I prepare myself for another day surviving a cruel and heartless world.
“Delilah.”
His gruff voice travels through the closed door, and I close my eyes, clawing any bravery I possess into my voice.
“I’m awake.”
“Breakfast is ready.”
He doesn’t attempt to enter the room, which I’m grateful for, and I say as loudly as I can muster, “I’ll be right there.”
Once again, I cast a look at my reflection and take a deep breath. Here goes nothing, I suppose.
I’m thankful for the sweatpants and oversized t-shirt they gave me. There are a few clothes hanging in a wooden closet that Blade gruffly told me to use. I came here in a hospital gown.
I never want to see it again.
As I head to the door, I swallow my nerves because my stomach reminds me that food is a requirement to survive, and I’ve been given a second chance, or is it a third? Either way, I’m not taking it for granted.
The door creaks open under my trembling hand, and I steel myself for a glimpse of my protector, possibly captor; I really don’t know anymore.
The sight of him will probably never still my racing heart, giving me palpitations that I have yet to process because this is not a man; it’s a monster in human form.
His eyes lift and tear through me like a tornado, twisting its path, leaving devastation in its wake.
His muscles ripple, straining against the thin t-shirt that is doing a shocking job of attempting to control the muscles of a man most definitely in his prime.
His shoulder-length black hair is tied back from his face in a ponytail, a bandana wrapped around his forehead, his dark, sensuous eyes gleaming as they power through to my soul. I shiver inside at the scar that runs the length of his cheek, a violent reminder of a past battle that the perpetrator almost definitely lost.
He is a machine. A killing machine—one I sorely needed last night. Is he an angel sent to me from God, or something else? I have yet to decide.
His powerful stare rips through any bravery I mustered, and he nods toward a rickety wooden chair, set on the opposite side of a small wooden table.
“You must be hungry.”
My stomach growls, almost in response, and I nod, swallowing hard as I perch awkwardly on the edge of the seat, my gaze falling on a plate of eggs, bacon, and toasted sourdough.
“You are very kind.”
I murmur, accepting how ridiculous my statement is because this man and kindness surely don’t belong together. He appears distracted, angry even, as if he would rather be anywhere else, and he probably does.
A faint smirk tugs at his lips, surrounded by dark, rough stubble that I’m almost positive is a permanent feature on his jaw.
“If you say so, darlin’.”
His voice is low, deep, like the purr of the engine of the bike we rode here on. I’m trying so hard to forget how I felt when my arms clung to his body as we whipped through the darkness to safety, or at least I hope it is.
He points to the food as he loads his fork. “Eat.”
