Page 96 of The Villain

I breathed deep, drawing her in like it was my very last breath, and of her, it might be.It should be.When this was all over, she deserved a real fresh start. From Brandon. From Ivans.From me.

She deserved more than someone who’d hurt her—betrayed her—twice, even if I’d happily spend the rest of my life giving her everything. She deserved a better man.

Yeah, I pretended for one night like some fucking fairy tale after the trauma I’d survived; I’d pretended like I could be that better man. I’d pretended because she couldn’t see me, and if she couldn’t see me, maybe I didn’t have to face myself. But I was fooling myself to think that could last. She deserved better.Someone who’d give her the truth from the start, for one.Someone to love her.

Pain burned in my side like a match struck right in the wound. I didn’t want anyone else to love her—it should’ve only ever been me. But it was too late for that now. Too late to do anything but lay the truth at her feet and hoped she walked far, far away.

One more deep breath of her filled my lungs as I opened my eyes. This time, the pain in my chest came from the squeeze of my heart.

Goddamn, she was so beautiful.

The soft light in the room cast an ethereal glow over her golden hair, which was swept up in a pile on top of her head. She was only in a tee and leggings, but the way the shadows clung to the swells of her breasts and the long lines of her legs—legs that had fit so perfectly around my waist—it was no wonder it pained my heart to beat; I wanted her beyond reason. Beyond rationality.

“Athena.”

She looked like an angel, sitting cross-legged on a chair she’d pulled beside the bed. She was an angel, and I’d fucking told Rhys to keep her away.

Her gaze lifted to mine from where she’d been concentrating over the paper in her lap. “Dare.” She lowered her pencil. “Are you okay? How are you feeling?”

“Fine.” I was in pain, but it was less because of her. Because she was here.

“Here.” She came over, took the water bottle from the nightstand, and handed it to me. “Dr. Nilsen—Rorik said you lost a lot of blood.”

“I’ll be fine,” I mumbled and downed several large gulps. “Youshouldn’t be here.”

She shouldn’t be anywhere near me. Not after what I’d done.

“So, you can take care of me, but I can’t take care of you? The man who saved my life?”

Angry air hissed through my lips. “I lied to you.” There was no point in skirting the truth—no point in trying to delay the return of her anger. Her hatred.

“You did.” Her chin lowered.

I drained the rest of the water, wishing it were something a hundred times stronger.“You shouldn’t want to take care of me.”

Pain pulled along her beautiful face, and I hated how even wanting her to hate me caused her pain.

I stilled as she sank onto the edge of the bed, her focus on my torso—on the bandaged wound. And then it strayed elsewhere—to the scars dotting and streaking over my skin.

“So many scars,” she murmured, and I breathed out unsteadily when her finger touched down on a scar shaped like a comet on my right shoulder where shrapnel from a blast had caught me.

“I’ve lived a violent life.”

Again, she nodded and then turned, reaching for the paper she’d set on her chair when she’d gotten up to bring me water.

“You’re peaceful when you sleep.” She set the paper on my lap; it was a portrait of me.

“You drew me.” I stared in awe at the soft lines stretching over the paper, coming together to create the image of a man I simultaneously knew but didn’t recognize. My features. My body. My scars. It was all me. But the peace on my face…it had to be remnants of the drugs in my system. I hadn’t slept good since, well, before the night I’d spent with her…in a long time.

“You sat perfectly still. An excellent subject.” A small smile spread across her face.

“This is incredible. You’re incredible,” I rasped and handed her back the drawing, afraid to look too long at a peace I might never find again.

“Well, it’s much better than the last time I tried to draw you.”

“Last…” I trailed off when another paper landed in my lap. This one was much less refined. It was chaotic. Messy. The whole thing was created from one wild line. “You drew this?”

“When I couldn’t see,” she confirmed, letting her tongue slide over her lips. “It took me so many tries to figure out how to…make it work. Not that I could see how badly I was failing, but as soon as I lifted the pencil from the paper, that was it. I was lost.”

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