Page 27 of A Touch of Dark
“There’s a bathroom down the hall,” he interjects. “First door to the left.”
I should scoff at the callous suggestion. Instead, I move on autopilot, following his instructions until I find myself locked inside a surprisingly spacious bathroom. The color scheme leaves little to be desired: dark tile flooring and more gray walls. His choice? Or perhaps the result of a lazy interior designer taking advantage of a blind client. Even before the thought finishes forming, I doubt it’s true. Damien is a man few could manipulate.
So the decoration is his choice, then. Perhaps he likes his guests to feel a sample of what he might. A disorienting lack of color. Dizzying monochrome. Little definition to speak of.
It requires me to close my eyes andfeelto discern anything at all from the stark surroundings. Sleek fixtures and smooth surfaces. Harsh, violent water pressure that easily rinses the blood from my hands. Dim lighting allows me to look at myself in the mirror and not cringe at what I see. If I squint, I can almost find my old self looking back. Perfect Juliana. Forgiving shadows obscure what brighter light wouldn’t.
My breathing hitches as the taste of copper burns my tongue. The flesh of my throat aches with the memory of roughly ground fingers from an unknown assailant and the knife he placed there.
Ifeel, and there isn’t enough wine within reach to make it all better.
If Mr. Villa has a reservation to uphold, then I make him blow it. I linger, desperately trying to rebuild my shattered façade. Each time, I fail. Try again. Fail harder. Tears mix with cold sweat, coating my cheeks until I can’t discern one from the other.
With a sigh, I give up and slip into the hall.
“Ms. Thorne?” He’s still waiting for me in that small sitting room and inclines his head as I approach. “Change your mind?”
I finger the sleeves of my coat, sensing the heat his body throws off even from across the room. “It’s late. Most places are closed by now anyway.”
He shrugs. “It’s of no concern. I have a special agreement with the management of this particular establishment. Shall we?”
I can’t ignore the expertly concealed dare.
Are you brave enough, Juliana?
I’m not. Ignoring his hand, I step toward the door and clear my throat. “I should go.”
“By all means.” What sounds polite on the surface holds more depth than his art and I’m instantly on edge. A deaf man could discern the sarcasm in his voice.
I nearly laugh out loud. How could I be so stupid? “And let me guess, the paparazzi are already waiting outside, courtesy of an anonymous tip? Or are they waiting at this so-called restaurant?”
“I assure all of my guests complete discretion and privacy.” The statement could be interpreted in so many ways. Some harmless. Others not so much.
“Oh really?”
“You’re more than welcome to see for yourself.” He’s behind me now, his breath on my neck, his footsteps soft against the hard floor. Damn near imperceptible. “Shall we?”
He pushes past me with enviable grace and extends his cane before him. His arm is slightly cocked, perfect for slipping a hand through should I give a damn about propriety.
Spurring the gesture, I follow him to the elevators and through the opening doors. Locked inside with him, I hold my breath until we reach the first floor. He must have called a car when I was in the bathroom, because there is one waiting for us, idling alongside the curb.
I don’t know what I expect as we exit the building. Should I grab the door for him? My hand flutters toward the handle, but it’s already in his grip. I see that someone wiped away my blood at least.
“After you, Ms. Thorne.” He steps back, letting me pass. Then he proceeds to lead the way to the car.
As we approach, the driver circles around to open the door to the back seat. I wait until the man beside me enters first and retracts his cane. It’s not too late to run and thumb my nose up at his offer. My body aches. I’m still bleeding.
I’m still terrified.
And he knows it. He leaves little space on the seat for me to claim, confident I’ll bolt. When I finally lower myself beside him, I can’t deny a sick satisfaction at the confused quirking of his jaw, but his heat creeping through my clothing quickly smothers the triumph.
“May I?” His palm extends toward me, facing upright. “Your arm,” he clarifies when I flinch.
My lips part, but in the end, I say nothing and shove his bloodied handkerchief into his hand. He touches my wrist, ghosting higher toward my shoulder. He doesn’t discover the wound right away, and he gently probes the flesh beneath his thumb until a hiss escapes my lips.
“You fell?” He sounds skeptical, but I grit my teeth against a retort. “Your coat,por favor,” he prompts, his voice tighter than I’ve heard it yet.
My first impulse is to resist as he peels my jacket back—but I am the idiot who got into the car with him in the first place, and I can’t be seen in public bleeding and broken.
