by Lana Sky
But I can’t stop.
“I-I picked me. I picked me,” I repeat, choking out the secret I’ve suffocated on all this time. “I wasn’t important. I wouldn’t be missed. He told me. And he stabbed Leslie anyway! He…he stabbed—”
“Enough.”
“He killed her,” I whisper in defiance. “And he’s hunted me everywhere I’ve gone ever since. So that I will never forget. My life is worthless.…”
And all along, Heyworth Thorne might have known his identity. Yet I wasn’t worth bringing that monster to justice. I wasn’t worth justice.
“You win, I guess,” I quip, laughing at the irony. “I never want to see Heyworth Thorne again. Does that make you happy?”
“You still sound weak,” Damien says, ignoring my question entirely.
I look beyond the windows and realize his driver has pulled up before the private entrance of the Lariat. There are no reporters lying in wait, surprisingly. Through his doing, I suspect.
“You need sleep—”
“Don’t pretend like you care.” My hand shakes as I wrestle for the door handle. “After all, this is what you wanted. To see the look on my father’s face as my world fell apart—”
“You shouldn’t be alone.”
Damn him. He should be gloating. Smirking. Smug. But the stern tone of his voice robs me of my anger and all I can do is follow meekly as he takes the lead and escorts me inside.
His face reveals nothing once he’s herded me into the elevator and we ascend to my suite. As we cross the threshold, guilt and gratitude feed off the potency of my fatigue. Only one thing can combat both: control.
“Fine,” I hiss as he steers me into my bedroom. “We can play this game so that you can end this charade that you give a damn.” In all honesty, the bastard’s left me no choice after today. I have just one thing to leverage against him. “I’ll agree. I’ll do it.”
He grabs my arm and pushes me firmly toward the mattress. “Do what?”
I climb beneath the sheets while he lurks there in utter silence. He’s right: I’m exhausted. All at once, the gravity of everything slams down like a hammer. Delirium sets in, skewing my priorities. Heyworth Thorne and Simon are a million miles away. As my head sinks against my pillow, I watch him. His jaw has never looked so comparable to steel before. I bet he could crush diamonds with the weight of his scowl alone.
“Sleep with you,” I say. “Now you can hold something over my father’s head, like you’ve dreamed—”
“You’re delirious,” he says with obvious restraint. Therefore, I’ll ignore the fact that you’re mocking me.
“I’m serious.” Am I? Maybe. The thoughts in my head all feel slurred and run together, but oddly enough, one seems startlingly clear. “I’ll let you have my virginity.”
He frowns and starts for the door. “Get some rest, Ms. Thorne.”
“In exchange—”
His footsteps falter.
“I want you to…”
“Yes?”
The grated word makes me realize that I’ve trailed off, lost in my thoughts. I want more from Damien than a smart woman should. Small things. Stupid things. Tiny, inconsequential things that suddenly appeal to me more than any couture gown or high-rise apartment would. Maybe because I know deep down he’ll never let me have them.
“I want you to find out who Simon is. I…I want justice.” That elusive thing Heyworth Thorne spent his entire life promising to deliver. “Is that a fair enough trade?”
“I can give you that,” he says quietly, as if it really is that simple. The powerful Damien Villa can do anything. So why stop there?
“And,” I add, “I want you to stay with me. Until my birthday, anyway.”
“Stay with you.”
“In theory,” I reply, murmuring.
“For a year?”
I can’t tell if he believes me or not. To him a year must be a lifetime. For me, it’s merely a brief lull before a recurring nightmare. “Yes.”
“And I would stay with you?”
Suddenly, my eyelids weigh an unbearable amount and I let them drift shut. “It shouldn’t be hard.” Ironically, considering this is the price I’m naming for my body. “Send me fresh flowers every day. Stay with me when it storms. I’ll even let you stalk me if you have to. Keep me away from my father if that’s what you want. Just…”
“What?”
I almost forgot he was there, listening avidly to my slurred, disjointed wish list. “Just pretend that you actually give a damn… Pretend you want to keep me.”
Maybe then I’ll stop hearing Simon’s voice slithering inside my skull: This one will be missed. This one matters.
You made the right choice…
And I’ll never let you forget it.
For the second day in a row, I wake up only to be bombarded by a million chilling realizations. One, I’m not wearing my own clothing. Soft cotton has taken the place of tailored silk.
Two, someone tucked me into bed, drawing the blankets over me with unnerving care.
Thirdly, and most confusing of all, I’m alone.
My breathing echoes loudly in the silence as I peel my eyes open to yet another overcast, stormy-gray sky. I’m not worried. Gritting my teeth, I climb out of bed and strip the gray pajama set someone dressed me in. I’m partially within a trademark black-pantsuit ensemble when I hear it.
A man’s voice.
The sound comes from my living room: a speaker rapidly communicating in a mixture of English and what I suspect to be Spanish. From his tone alone, I can tell he’s in the middle of what he seems to do best: dishing out orders.
Partly convinced it’s all a figment of my imagination, I leave my room half-dressed, only to be faced with a furious Damien pacing before my coveted view.
He must carry around impeccable suits wherever he goes. Today, his outfit of choice is gray with a muted tie in a similar hue. The moment I step closer, his head swivels in my direction. “Find him,” he snarls into a cell phone before shoving it into his pocket. “You’re awake,” he says gruffly.
I swallow hard, surprised to find my throat dry and my lips cracked. “You’re still here.” My tone inflects at the last second, turning the statement into a whispered question. Why?
“How do you feel?”
Exhaustion robs me of my usual filter. “Tired,” I admit. “I’m thirsty. Starving—”
“Side effects of hypothermia,” he interjects in a fittingly icy tone. “I’ll have something brought up.”
Before I can blink, the phone is at his ear and he’s snarling even more phrases in Spanish.
A glance beyond him reveals that he’s been busy. My couch looks as though a man roughly the size of Damien has occupied it for quite some time—God forbid slept on it. A nondescript stainless-steel mug rests on my coffee table. One sniff and I can tell the blend isn’t mine but the concoction of someone who prefers their caffeine black.
Do I dare believe he slept here overnight? Of course not. That would mean assuming he considered taking me up on my offer—and I already have an I was just delirious and joking, obviously, quip poised on the tip of my tongue. Seconds pass, but it never leaves my throat.
“You didn’t have to stay.”
He pauses in his solitary march, facing the view from the windows. Even though I know he can’t see the dreary clouds through a jungle of concrete, his posture stiffens.
“I apologize again for the other day,” he says, leaving me scrambling to wonder which night he referred to. “That was not my intention. For you to learn the truth in that way.”
“I can believe that,” I say. A man like him would have envisioned something far more devastating than a woman’s minor mental breakdown in front of a throng of reporters.
In fact…
I know deep down it could have been so much worse. “I’m surprised my father hasn’t come by or called…”
The subtle tensing of his jaw makes me suspect that he may have something to do with that
fact.
“I don’t want to see him,” I admit before he can voice an excuse. “Not now. I-I can’t…”
His lips part, but the door opens at the same time and Julio strolls in as boldly as if he lives here. He places a steaming cup of commercial coffee and a white takeout box on my counter. He nods to me and greets Damien out loud. “Sir.”
Then he leaves, and Damien decides that taking charge of my welfare would punish me more than any comeback could.
“Eat,” he commands, stressing the word.
I’d refuse if I weren’t so hungry. My stomach growls as I cross over to the food and lift the lid of the container. The meal certainly isn’t fare comparable to pizza. The buttered croissant and blueberry jam taste both heavenly and suspicious. Could they be a peace offering?
Looking at the man, I can’t tell. He almost seamlessly blends into the background of the stormy city landscape. Sharp, harsh edges and sleek lines with streaks of odd light where there shouldn’t be any. Like the fact that I can tell—whether on my couch or not—he hasn’t slept much. The lines around his mouth are more pronounced than usual. He looks weathered and weary.
Because of me?
“I can pay you for the doctor’s visit,” I suggest. “And the gas you spent to—”
“I don’t want money from you.”
“Oh, that’s right,” I say softly. “You want my virginity.”
I was wrong before in thinking that mentioning Mateo had triggered the worst of his anger. Sorely mistaken. This cold, silent creature, with his head dangerously cocked to the side, is Damien at his most volatile. My, how the man hates being mocked.
And in this moment, I’m poised to deliver the most crushing comeback I can and save face once and for all. Because I remember in cruel, crystal-clear detail everything I said to him. The price I deliriously dreamt up for myself. Stay with me. Be with me. Pretend for me.
Most pathetic of all: Keep me.
“Well?” I croak after choking down the last bite of my breakfast. “Have you considered my terms?”
I don’t know which one of us is more shocked. My knees knock together. I feel liable to melt into a puddle on the floor.
And Damien looks like the definition of a man caught stepping on a landmine. “You remember?” His tone betrays more than mere caution. It’s deadly.
“I require a yes or no answer, Mr. Villa.” My God, how do I sound so calm? So in control when I feel anything but? “Did you find my terms agreeable?”
Of course he didn’t. And his silence proves it. Without warning, he heads for the door.
“I have business to attend to,” he tells me while straightening the sleeves of his perfectly crisp jacket. “It may take the rest of the day.”
I still expect a direct refusal. Or for him to laugh and utter some parting cheap shot. Not to leave, shutting the door behind him. I can hear his footsteps retreat down the hall as my words hang on the air, sounding less calm the more I think on it and more…desperate.
Have you considered my terms?
No wonder he sounded so surprised that I’d mention them. He hoped I’d forgotten. Apparently, he wasn’t willing to pay any price after all.
Bastard. My fingers tighten around the cup of coffee and I wind up throwing it across the room. It strikes my wall with a thud, splattering brown liquid over the industrial gray surface. Who needs Damien when I can create my own fucking art?
“Miss?”
I flinch as the accented voice accompanies a knock on my door. “Y-yes? Um…come in.”
The door opens to reveal Julio, his expression stern—which makes the fact that he’s holding a delicate vase of flowers in his hands even more comical and chilling. “Where would you like these, miss?”
Son of a bitch. I blink and find myself staring at the vase in a daze. The container itself is silver. From it sprouts a single black orchid with a telltale dash of pink across its center.
It’s one of his, ripped right from the oh-so-private collection. I recognize the shape. The smell. The jagged stalk missing a single bloom.
By some miracle, I manage to point to the counter, and Julio obeys my silent command before leaving again, presumably to take up his post in the hallway.
Swallowing hard, I observe the petals of the bloom up close. It could be some sick version of a goodbye message or a threat. I’m almost content with that scenario.
But then I remember my own slurred, incoherent words.
Send me flowers every day.
Only a man like Damien Villa could make such a gesture feel like a warning.
~ END OF PART 1 ~
Hey there!
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Lana Sky is a reclusive writer in the United States who spends most of her time daydreaming about complex male characters and legless cats. She writes mostly paranormal romance, in between watching reruns of Ab Fab and drinking iced tea. Only iced tea.
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