by Lana Sky
“How well would you need to see them?” The skin on my neck prickles at the thought. I’m suddenly aware of just how thin this blouse is. Paper fucking thin.
“Thoroughly.”
My face is hot. I should take comfort in the fact that he can’t see—but I don’t. He’s aware of each breath escaping my lungs, quickening with every insinuation. A smart woman would be polite. Play coy and avoid mentioning the one subject he seems impatient for me to broach.
“Sex,” I say, jumping in headfirst. “Do you sleep with your subjects?”
“Some of them.”
“Oh?” I shuffle my heels against the floor in a futile effort to regain my balance. “While they’re paralyzed?” I’m picturing it before I can stop myself. Perhaps that’s how he gets his sick fix: incapacitating his partners in some twisted bid for control.
But he laughs. “I heed my partner’s preference, Ms. Thorne.”
“Well, I’m not sleeping with you.”
“I wouldn’t expect you to.” He laughs again, deeper than before. Not to reassure me, but to warn. Sex with me is the last thing on his mind. “Think of it as a research method, one only employed when necessary. I try to give my subjects whatever they need to draw out the emotions I seek.”
It’s a nice way of putting his perversion—I have to give him that. “And what do you ‘seek’ from me?”
“Nothing.” He shrugs. “Frankly, my painting you would only be to relieve your curiosity. Nothing more.”
“Oh?” This time, I recognize the bait for what it is, though it doesn’t ease the sting of his trap.
“There’s nothing about you that I feel is worth uncovering.”
Bingo. I do my best to grit my teeth and let the insult fly by. A normal woman might respond by tossing wine in the bastard’s face and catching a car home. I’m low on the wine part. Retaliation is my sole motivation for stalking to the table and refilling my glass.
Before I can aim any of the liquid at him, I take a sip. Then another. “Is that so?” I rasp once half the glass is gone. “Try me.”
“You live alone.”
“Clever. As if you couldn’t tell that much when you broke into my apartment.”
“You enjoy living alone. At the same time, you hate it.” He pauses pointedly as if to say, Am I right?
He’s not. But I take another sip rather than humor him with a response.
“You’re not comfortable with sex. I’ll go so far as to presume that you don’t date often, certainly not recently. I’d assume you were a virgin, but most women with your upbringing feel the need to rebel at least once or twice sexually.”
Bastard.
“Ah, I guess you employ this party trick with all your guests?” I snap in between sips of wine. Sip. Sip. Sip. My hand shakes, sloshing some down the front of my blouse, but I can’t even muster up the energy to curse. He’s doing that thing again, talking to me in a way that no one else would dare.
“Your color of preference is black,” he continues.
“Strange assumption for a blind man to make.” I’m cringing at my rudeness. Whatever. The smug set to his jaw only reinforces my determination to hold my own. He’s asking for it. “Unless this is really an act you put on—”
“Black is neutral,” Damien says over me. “Imposing. People who wear black are less prone to being approached. Few people will inquire about a black dress versus one in a bright, intriguing shade of pink. In short, it’s safe.”
His tone implies just what he thinks of that: pathetic.
“So, I guess that makes you an expert on fashion?” I chase the question with another deep sip. My skin still feels hot. Odd. Wine never affects me like this. “What color am I wearing now then, Mr. Villa?”
He cocks his head as if listening for the answer. “Mostly black,” he says. “A hint of white.”
I cross my arms over my chest. Fucking liar. “So you aren’t blind—”
“As I said: It’s easy to tell when most people wear black,” he reiterates. “Think of it as a certain…way of walking. Of talking.”
“And the white?” I croak, fingering the collar of my blouse. It’s funny. I don’t even remember owning it, but sure enough, I found it in my closet, a shade purer than my dress. “I thought you said black was my only color?”
“Preference,” he corrects. “And my guess is that…you were distracted.”
“Distracted?” The memories of this morning are a blur, minus one inescapable truth. I was thinking of Simon. “What else?” I demand, taking a step toward him and the final sip of my wine. “Tell me, oh wise Mr. Villa.”
“You’re sheltered. Your father goes to great lengths to ensure that.” He laughs darkly, in a way that implies far too much familiarity with that subject. “I wonder if you even know half of the extent.”
“Sheltered.” The glass slips from my grip. Ping! A million shards of glass crunch underfoot. A bit like my pride. “You don’t know a damn thing about me.”
“Oh?” he murmurs, turning my own haughty phrase against me. “You’re sheltered but not innocent. You’ve suffered,” he adds before I can prove him wrong. “And yet you believe that pain gives you license to keep suffering.”
“Screw you!” My hand flies out, gathering speed, and the palm strikes his cheek. Thwack! I stagger back, clutching the stinging limb to my side. I shouldn’t feel the guilt slicing through my chest so keenly. The world shouldn’t be spinning…
“I let you do that once,” Damien murmurs. His face blurs in and out of focus, distorted by the blindfold. There’s only shadow where his eyes should be. “I won’t let it happen twice.”
It’s more than a warning. The weight of promised violence wraps around my neck like a noose, weighing me down until I hit the floor on my hands and knees.
My head throbs. The room splits in half, and suddenly, there are two of everything. Two tables. Two bottles of wine. Two mysterious, angry blind men sensing my motions through every sloppy sound I make.
“You’re drunk,” he declares on the cusp of a sigh.
“Liar,” I croak, watching the light play over the floor. “I don’t get drunk.”
“Get up.” He’s in front of me, standing with his hand outstretched. From this angle, he’s more imposing than he should be. A hulking monolith of a man.
I don’t know why I reach for him this time, interlacing my fingers with his. He yanks me upright, but the world pitches beneath me, impossible to balance upon. My legs fold, but something catches me by the waist before I can fall. Something strong. Firm. Warm.
“I’ve got you.” The voice sinks into my skin, resonating in my bones to spite me.
My palms flatten against the firm planes of his chest, and I push back but my legs buckle, making one thing clear: It’s either him or the floor. Instinctively, my grip tightens over his forearms, rousing tightly coiled muscle that flexes beneath my fingers. God, he’s strong—another realization that catches me off guard.
“Come.” His breath fans my throat. “Sit.”
He angles my body toward the couch and I can’t stop the descent. Boneless, I land on the cushions width-ways, staring up at him.
“You drugged me.” My words slur together, even as I know that my accusation isn’t true. A drug would make me feel better, but I just feel numb.
“I warned you that the drink is stronger than what you’re used to.” The confidence with which he makes that assumption drenches me in foreboding.
“You don’t know a damn thing about me.”
“Don’t I?” He cocks his head.
I shiver, bracing my hands against unyielding leather. He seems different from this angle. Bigger. To use his word, imposing.
“I know that every year on which just so happens to be your birthday, someone sends you the exact bottle of vintage Romanée Conti that I’ve served you, but you never drink more than a few sips.”
Shock grips my chest like a ruthless fist, squeezing the air from it. “You’ve been watching me.�
�� More than just watching. Peering into that black box that arrives every year to know the bottle. Unless he could decipher wine brands through touch alone, he had to have someone read him the label. “You’re sick.”
“I’m thorough, Ms. Thorne,” he corrects without a shred of guilt or shame. “Know thy enemy.”
“Enemy? So, you spied on me because you hate my father?”
But why tell me this now? Fear of the answer solidifies in my stomach and creeps up the back of my throat like bile. There has to be a reason.
“I always do my research, Ms. Thorne,” he says. “I know you. I’ve watched you, as have so many others in your life.”
Watched. Something about how he utters that word makes me roll onto my side and attempt to sit upright. I fail, smacking my head off the armrest as my ineffective limbs refuse to support my weight. “How? Why?”
“Curiosity. I want to be near enough to sense your reaction the day that all of your father’s lies come crashing down around you.” With that, he straightens his posture and elegantly extends his cane. “I’ll have a car sent for you,” he says as he starts for the door, tapping out a path.
“Wait!” I flail again in a desperate attempt to stand. Dizziness. The next second, my head is between my knees and my stomach is heaving.
I hear silence. Then footsteps coming closer. Closer…as the world spins faster and faster.
I’ve never been hungover in my life, but I recognize the nauseating punishment my body enacts. College rumors don’t do it justice; sobriety returns with a vengeance. Too exhausted to move, I just suck in air through my nose and attempt to decipher my surroundings.
I’m on my bed, I think. There is no mistaking the rasp of my custom sheets and the firmness of my mattress. How I got here. Well…
Those details are fuzzy. Alarmed, I blink my eyes open to make out the familiar comforts of my room. Gray daylight streams in through the window. Too bright. I groan and roll onto my side to escape it. Then I hear them.
Footsteps, soft and slow, approaching the bed. I jerk my focus toward the sound and spot him lingering just beyond my reach, dressed impeccably in a mixture of gray and black. In one hand, he’s holding my favorite white mug. Steam wafts from the top and my nostrils wrinkle. Coffee.
“I recommend small sips,” he says and sets the mug on my bedside table.
The resulting sound echoes like a gunshot, drawing a groan from my lips. My brain feels like a bowling ball bouncing off a skull made of tissue paper.
“What...what are you doing here?” Uh-oh. Something flakes off my chin as I speak. Dried. Crusty. I fight to lift my hand from the bed and swipe at my mouth with a trembling finger. Vomit.
“You were in no state to be left alone.” He sounds disgusted by that fact and I shudder at what else I might have done to earn such a reaction. Not that I need to worry. Damien seems more than willing to tell me. “I didn’t touch you more than necessary,” he adds, a chilling preface.
I glance down and find my blouse partially undone. Someone wedged a damp cloth beneath the sleeve over my injured shoulder. My pants are still on, but my heels aren’t. Oh God. The dried vomit takes on a different meaning.
“This is breaking and entering,” I rasp. I try to sit up only to wind up on my back. The world won’t stop spinning.
“It would be,” Damien admits. “If you didn’t invite me in.”
Even drunk, I doubt I’d be so stupid. Rather than challenge him, I state the obvious. “Well, you can leave now.”
He doesn’t so much as flinch at the vitriol I spit his way. Instead, he reaches out, his fingers outstretched. I stiffen, choking on the air, but he grabs something from the nightstand near my bed. A handkerchief, one of his.
“Here.” He drags the cloth against my cheek without warning. Without permission.
Sputtering, I cringe out of his reach. “Did you forget you’re supposed to be blind?” I croak, eyeing his blindfold for any concealed slits.
“I can hear your breathing,” he explains, letting the cloth fall onto the sheets. Sighing, he stands back and inclines his head toward the bedframe. “And I was listening from the other room. You haven’t shifted much from the position I left you in.”
Listening? Just how long has he been here, lurking outside my bedroom? I swallow hard and grasp the end of a sheet, dragging it over me as if the thin material can protect against his perception.
“Is that how you get by?” I wonder, annoyed that I sound more curious than mocking. “Remembering people’s body positions?”
He tilts his head. “Well, I do paint the human body for a living. At least that’s how the saying goes, isn’t it?”
“Because you don’t paint the human body for a living,” I finish for him. Daddy used another word to describe his true profession. “You’re a criminal.”
“Drink the coffee slowly,” he tells me while withdrawing an object from the pocket of his slacks: the cane. Each delicate tap echoes as he heads for the door.
“Wait.” Why I stop him, I don’t know. His jaw clenches amid the snapping of teeth as he pauses near the doorway. “You said something last night.” My heart squeezes as my brain sluggishly attempts to remember. What was it? “Something about my birthday,” I add, fumbling with the words as they race from my mouth. “The wine. You knew. How?”
A simple shrugging of his shoulders and Damien becomes unreadable. “I don’t remember anything of the sort, Ms. Thorne. Enjoy the rest of your day—”
“Wait.” I manage to haul myself upright, using the pillow as a crutch. The words on the tip of my tongue don’t leave it easily, almost as if every cell in my body resists the notion I stupidly propose. “So…so, when do we start?”
“Excuse me?” God, he sounds even more unnerving when he’s confused. His voice dips an octave and his accent sharpens, honing every word into crisp syllables.
“When do we start?” I try to sound casual and fail. It would help if I didn’t feel like roadkill. Or if this man weren’t lying to me, withholding secrets about my own damn life.
I’ll get to that, eventually. Until then…
“Painting me,” I say, forging on. “I remember your terms.” They were crystal clear: paralyzed by a drug, naked, and helpless at his mercy.
“And you agree to them?”
Do I? The ominous tingle running down my spine says no.
“If I did,” I begin before he can say anything cutting, “when would we start?”
“This isn’t a game.”
I flinch. He’s using that whip-like voice again, and my hungover brain struggles to impress upon me one key detail: He’s a stranger in my house, able to navigate it with uncanny ease, especially for a blind man. He looks far too comfortable, lording over my master bedroom, which suddenly feels like a closet. I should be calling Daddy. The police. Anyone.
Not pushing his buttons, morbidly eager to learn more. He claims to know me, but I don’t even have that luxury.
“I’m not playing.” My voice almost sounds stable enough to back that statement. “So were you lying when you offered your services, or were you serious?”
I’m shivering. Only now am I aware of how my teeth are chattering. My blouse feels like tissue paper, ineffective against how my nipples have stiffened. Biology is betraying me in the worst possible way. Gritting my teeth, I drag the sheet farther over me.
He notices. The corner of his mouth twitches as if he’s aware of everything I desperately seek to hide. The resulting expression isn’t quite a smile or a frown. It’s more terrifying than either.
It’s curious.
“Yes or no,” he demands, squaring his stance until he dominates my doorway and there’s no way past him. I’m trapped. Physically. Figuratively. “I don’t play with possibilities.”
Suddenly, my lips feel dry enough that I run my tongue across them. Dehydrated flesh grates on the moist surface like sandpaper. Unfortunately, the pain doesn’t reboot my common sense.
“Yes,” I blurt as m
y stomach flips. “I’ll do it. So, when do we start?”
“I should let you recover from last night,” he says as if the idea just occurred to him.
As if I’m that fragile. That weak.
“No.” I shift my weight and place my feet on the floor. “How about tonight?”
And this time, I’ll corner him with questions he can’t refuse. I’ll get to the bottom of Damien. Even if…
My mind shies away from the train of thought. Even if it kills me.
“Hmm?” I prod when he doesn’t answer. His jaw is tight again, his head still cocked like a predator avidly tracking his prey. Have I stumped the cool, collected Mr. Villa?
I suck in a breath when he nods. Apparently not.
“I’ll consider it.”
“C-consider it?”
He turns on his heel and exits my room without explanation, navigating toward what sounds like the foyer. “Have a good day, Ms. Thorne. Drink the coffee.” He pauses, allowing the command to linger on the air. “I’ll be in touch to inform you whether or not I’ll humor your request.”
“Humor?”
I hear the door open and close. By the time I manage to climb to my feet and stagger into the living room, he’s gone. I race to the peephole and peer into the hall just in time to catch his silhouette flicker around the corner.
“Bastard,” I hiss.
But as my voice echoes around me, I remember…
I’m alone again. With no one to stand between me and Simon. With no one there to see how my breathing becomes rapid and my body trembles. There’s no time to regret the action. I already have the door open and I’m stumbling into the hall.
“Wait.” I round the corner and find him standing before the elevator. A hiss of annoyance catches on the air. Yet he maintains the perfect poise of a gentleman.
“Can I help you, Ms. Thorne?”
“Why not just do it now and get it over with?”
He frowns at the suggestion. “I have other arrangements, and frankly, considering how much you drank, the alcohol is most likely still in your system. Mixing that with the drug I use can have dangerous side effects.”
Fair enough. I take a step back and the elevator car arrives with a musical chime. I’m wringing my fingers together as he steps inside and feels along the wall panel for the ground floor button. It’s the most convincing show of blindness from him yet. A minor hint of weakness. As the thought crosses my mind he nods, setting my body alight.
