Page 39 of His Dark Purpose

“I’m coming, Amy.”

He didn’t know who he was talking to as he picked up his pace and rushed toward the bedroom. He barely even paused when a selection of the cutlery he was balancing on the dishes slid to the carpet below. All he could think about was his little girl—whether she was okay and what he would find when he came hurtling through the door.

So consumed was he with the urgency that he didn’t hear the movement on the stairs behind him as he turned the corner, and he didn’t sense anyone watching. That was saying something. Kyle was generally sharp and didn’t easily miss a thing, but Amy had that unique way of clouding all nonessential functions in his head, blinkering him to the only thing vital to his being—her.

That was why he never noticed Seth’s ascent behind him and why he didn’t pay attention to his senses as he rushed to come to heel.

Lowering the door handle with his elbow, he hurried into the bedroom, his gaze scanning the bed to ensure Amy was safe. The red-faced, snarling woman who met his eyes wasn’t quite the loving, purring Amy he’d hoped to find, but she was at least Amy—a version of the woman he loved—and her right wrist was still cuffed to his bedstead.

Thank God.

Relief flooded his brain. She was okay.

Everything’s okay.

“Are you all right?” Kicking the door closed, he came to rest the plates of food on the end of the bed.

Her eyes widened as she took in the sight of him, but he sensed it wasn’t fear motivating the gesture but anger.

“What the fuck?” She could barely catch her breath. “I woke up to find this!” She motioned to the metal encasing her slim wrist. “And now you bring this…” Her gaze slid to the omelets.

“Language, little girl.” He’d spoken to her about profanity before. “I made us dinner.”

“Dinner?” Her focus flitted to the window and the darkened sky waiting beyond it, conveying the obvious response—it was too late for dinner.

“Breakfast, then.” Flustered by her comeback, he pushed the loose strands of hair from his eyes. “I wanted to do something nice for you.”

“Like this,sir?” Her tone was sardonic as she tugged against the handcuffs.

“Don’t push your luck.” Relief mingled with his desire to punish her sarcasm. “I’mtryingto do the right thing here.”

The pride that had bubbled at his efforts in the kitchen began to fade, replaced by the familiar need to tame his wildcat. God knew he only wanted to look after her, but it seemed she couldn’t help but push back at every given opportunity, riling the animal inside him. Naturally, it didn’t help that he knew she was naked under his covers. He hadn’t left any of her clothes within grasping distance when he’d left, and the cuffs ensured she hadn’t gone wandering in his absence.

“Since when did cuffing me becomethe right thing?” She glared at him. “And what are those?” Her attention darted back to his culinary offerings.

“I…” He floundered, bewildered at the cutting timbre of her voice. Amy was normally such a kind soul. Perhaps the omelets weren’t the best she’d ever seen, but he hadn’t expected insults for his attempt. “I wanted us to eat something.” He pulled in a breath, surprised at how much her sneer had hurt.

“Oh.” She sighed, apparently as unenthralled by the omelet as she’d initially seemed. Shifting on the bed, it was as if she’d abruptly realized how rude she was being, and the Amy he knew and had fallen for reemerged from her furious shell. “Well, thanks.”

“Here.” He passed a plate to her, placing it on her blanket-covered lap. “I hope it’s okay.”

The insecurity bubbling within him was a new and disconcerting symptom of being so blindly in love with her, and collecting his own plate, he wondered how long the uncertainty would last. He didn’t appreciate its gnawing derides and longed to be free of its mocking tone, but somehow, the risk of losing Amy had derailed his inner confidence. It was as though he needed her on an ethereal level—required her presence to justbe—and in the panic of pleasing her and fearing she might be in trouble, his self-worth had been rocked to its core.

“Erm, sir.” She cleared her throat. “I am hungry, and I appreciate the thought, but how am I supposed to eat like this?” Her bound wrist shook in his fetters, drawing his attention back to her cuff.

“You’ll manage with your left hand.” Any semblance of him that wanted to release her hand had waned with her snide remarks. “You have cutlery, don’t you?”

Glancing down at the plush knife and fork on his plate, the appetite that had plagued him all but vanished as he perched on the opposite side of the bed from her. The cutlery set had cost him a fortune, the knives better suited to ripping through steak than egg, but he’d chosen them intentionally—he wanted the best for her.

He always wanted that.

“Actually, no, I don’t have a knife or a fork.” She almost laughed as he glanced back at her plate. “If you wanted me to eat from the floor, sir, then you’ll definitely have to uncuff me.”

“No, I…” A crease appeared in his brow as the memory of dropping silverware crashed through his mind. It must have been Amy’s tableware that hit the carpet on his way in there. “I dropped them. Wait there, I’ll get them for you.”

Placing down his plate, he rose from the bed. The omelet would probably be frozen by the time he got to eat it, the plummeting temperature of the food the latest reason his hunger had ebbed. The idea of cooking for her, which had once seemed like such an alluring gesture, had unraveled to be nothing more than the congealed egg waiting on their plates—cold and unappealing.

“No, wait!” She yanked harder at her cuff that time, nearly spilling the plate from her lap as she rose to her feet. “Don’t go!”

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