I feel like my back is against the wall. He’s offering me a way out of this crisis that I’m stuck in, at least a partial way out, and all I have to do is let him stay here. For a week.
I stare up at him and he looks down, waiting for me to respond. I chew my lower lip, knowing that the decision is already made in my mind as I discard common sense and choose to grasp the safety net I’ve been offered. The worst thing he can do is kill me. Isn’t my life shitty enough already?
“F-Fine,” I say, trying to sound decisive. “But I’ll have you know that I sleep with a knife under my pillow and I have a can of mace. So, no funny business.”
I can see the laughter in his eyes, as he repeats in an obedient tone, his hand on his heart, “No funny business.”
His eyes land on my mouth as he says, silkily, “Shall we seal the deal with a kiss?”
I slam my hand on his mouth and see the flash of pain in his eyes when my fingers brush against his injured jaw. I feel guilty for that but I say, severely, “That includes touching and kissing. You can’t do that either. I’m not—” I take in a shuddering breath, setting lines, “I’m not whoring myself out. You need a place to stay and a qualified nurse to look after you. That’s all I’m offering. Nothing more than that.”
Damien’s eyes darken and he grasps my wrist firmly before lowering it, his thumb on my skittish pulse, his voice a heady purr. “And what of when you’ll beg me for more?”
His words rub me in all kinds of ways and even as my womb tightens at the way he says those words, I bare my teeth in a reckless smile. “Trust me, I won’t.”
He smiles in return. “I always keep my word, mon chéri. So, I won’t touch you until you ask me for it.” His green eyes darken in a way that have me close to whimpering in need, his body inches away from me, enough so that I feel the heat emitting from him. “But when you do, I will take you in every way I please.” His free hand comes to cup my cheek, the dark promise of pleasure in his eyes, eroding at my self-control. “And you’ll be so good for me then, won’t you?”
My chest is heaving, my lips parted as I try to pull myself free from his thrall.
It’s the smallest scrape of my foot against the floor that brings reality crashing down around me. I tilt my head up and try to ignore the fact that we’re both aware of how turned on I am as I lie through my teeth. “I don’t find you that interesting.”
His lips curve in a smirk. “Of course you do, mon petit poussin.”
Chapter 4
I wake up the next morning, feeling more tired than I had been when I went to bed. I stare at the ceiling, trying to gather my thoughts. My eyes don’t go to the check written out to me for ten thousand dollars which is lying on my dresser, innocent as can be.
With my mind no longer under the influence of alcohol, I feel trepidation creep in as I realize the pickle I’ve gotten myself into. I agreed to let an unknown man stay in my apartment for a week, a man who has expressed clear interest in me and who looks like sin and talks with such devilish charm that a few moments alone with him are a test of my self control.
I let out a groan and bury my face in the pillow.
Oh God, I hope he doesn’t kill me in my sleep or anything.
It’s still relatively early but I can’t sleep anymore so I get out of bed. I’m about to step out of my room in my Daffy Duck pajamas when I hesitate, my hand on the doorknob. These aren’t the most attractive sleepwear I have.
The second the thought flashes into my head, I growl at myself. Who cares? This is my apartment. If I want to roam around in pajamas with cartoon characters drawn on them, it’s my own damn business! I’m not going to dress up for him. It’s not like I want him to look at me and—
I force open the door, annoyed with myself, and I march out in a huff, only to freeze when I’m assaulted by the scent of bacon and the sound of sizzling eggs.
“There you are, mon chéri.” Damien’s voice reaches my ears and I look toward the kitchen, almost instinctively.
He’s standing there in the same clothes from last night, his hair wet as he flips over what looks like bacon. I’m pretty sure I had no food in the fridge last night. I don’t know whether to ask him where the food came from, first, or—My eyes widen. “You shouldn’t be moving about!”
Damien looks over at me and I see his eyes run over my pajamas and instead of seeing disdain or disinterest at what I’m wearing, the corner of his lips quirk up, heat flares in his eyes. “You look adorable, mon chéri.”
That isn’t the reaction I was expecting and it takes me aback, as my cheeks flush at his words. However, I stubbornly choose to ignore them and repeat, “You have a stab wound, a very deep stab wound, need I remind you. You shouldn’t be walking about or even taking a bath!”
He stills and eyes me in a blatantly suggestive way. “I wasn’t aware that a sponge bath was on the table. If you’re—”
“I’m not giving you a sponge bath.”
The words are meant to come out testily, but they’re spoken in a soft breath and his eyes darken and I pretend not to see it.
He gives me a look of vague disappointment before turning back to the food on the stove. “Well, breakfast is nearly ready so take a seat.”
“How am I supposed to look after you when you won’t even listen to me?” I complain as I look around the room. The coffee table has been cleared and I blink at the two glasses, the chipped jug which is filled with orange juice, and the sliced fruit and croissants.
“I—” I stand frozen in place, unable to comprehend what my eyes are seeing. “Dam- Damien, where did all this food come from?”
I feel his presence behind me before I hear the footsteps and then he’s brushing past me and my stomach quivers at how close he is.
“I have my sources.”
He sits down on the couch and I see how carefully he moves as if each movement is painful. I swallow. “If you keep this up, your wound won’t heal and your stitches will pull out.”
He glances at me, cheerfully. “I’ll be careful, mon chéri. Don’t worry.”
“I’m not worried,” I say, tensely. “But you said you want me to look after you so that you can recover and I can’t help you if you act like a brat.”
There’s a flicker of some emotion in his eyes, dark and dangerous, and yet it doesn’t feel threatening. He pats the seat next to him. “Come sit.”
I have no choice but to obey as he pushes a plate of eggs and bacon toward me. “You’re too thin. You should eat more.”
I stare at him. “Are you the patient here, or am I?”
He grins as he puts some orange slices on my plate. “I am.”
“Then, you have to listen to me when I tell you that you can’t do something.”
“Of course, mon chéri. Here, take this too.”
He keeps piling food on my plate and I don’t know what to do. It’s clear that he’s paying as much attention to me as one would to a child throwing a tantrum and I purse my lips, not touching my plate. If he doesn’t want to listen to me, I have ways of handling even the most difficult of patients.