Page 34 of A Touch of Dark
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’sstrong—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.”
