Page 39 of A Touch of Dark
I sense him, even before his hand settles over the back of the couch, searching. He swipes along the rim until he reaches my shoulder. With deliberate familiarity, he circles his fingers around the ridge of muscle and bone.
“It will be an intramuscular injection,” he says. Warning me? “There will be some initial discomfort. Then numbness. You’ll be able to breathe, but speaking will be difficult and I recommend against it. Do you have any medication allergies?”
I shake my head.
“Fine, then.” He sounds resigned, more to his choice than my own. “Sit still. After this, I’ll accept no change of heart. Do you agree to my terms?”
I should mull over the question, creating a dramatic silence worthy of the coward he thinks me to be. Mainly, I should cower and shiver beneath his touch. Not glisten with sweat I know he can feel.
“I agree,” I say, copying his formal language. “I agree to your terms—” My voice ends in a hiss. Unseen, he must have injected me, right into the muscle of my upper arm.
“Discomfort” was an understatement. Burning fire consumes the muscle and spreads. I can feel it trickling into my bloodstream. My fingertips sear. My legs. My chest.
“It will take at least ten minutes for the full effect,” Damien explains.
I hear a noise that sounds like his cane being propped against the back of the couch. Knuckles cracking next. Fabric rustling. His coat being shed, I realize as he circles around to face me.
He cocks his head, listening. I’m starting to recognize how he compensates for the loss of his vision—he’s attentive. Calculating.
“S-should I lie down?” My voice comes out a scarce whisper, though I doubt the drug has taken effect this quickly. The sight of him has its own paralyzing effect. He’s here, enforcing his presence in a way even Simon never has. I taste his flavor on my tongue and I’m not sure whether to spit him out or…
“It’s up to you,” he says, reinforcing his indifference to this entire situation. Poor man. I’ve confounded him—even though he’s the one who broke into my home and put the choice before me in the first place.
My arm is starting to throb, so I decide to lie flat on my back with the site of the injection toward the open end of the couch. I’ve barely settled against the leather when I catch his frown.
“Remove the towel.”
I can’t silence my gasp. “H-how did you know?” Ignoring the fact that I mentioned getting dressed, I could be wearing pajamas for all he knew. No. Towel is far too specific. Just how long has he been here?
“You were in the shower,” he says, only extending my curiosity. “You then went into the bedroom, but you didn’t enter your closet. I didn’t hear hangers being moved. Or drawers being opened. You take at least ten minutes to dress normally, but you were out in three.”
He recited such a methodical list for a reason. To inflict the most terror. And he has.
My eyes go to the door. I can still move my limbs. Long enough to get help? I brace one foot against the floor, preparing to stand.
“How long have you been watching me? How? Do you always come into my house while I’m—”
“You should conserve your energy, Ms. Thorne. We’re already at two minutes.”
“Then admit it,” I hiss through gritted teeth. “How long have you been stalking me?”
“I think a better question is: Whoelsemight be watching you, Juliana Thorne?”
I flinch at the insinuation. He knows of the wine, but is he aware of who sent it and why? Does he know about Simon?
“As for why, it’s simple: Because I can. I’ve had a window into your life you couldn’t realize in your nightmares.”
My fingers clutch the couch on either side of me, readying for the moment I decide to run. Which is exactly what he wants me to do. He’s goading me on purpose. Scaring me. I should damn well take the hint. I shouldn’t question.
“If I’m so uninteresting to you, then why waste your precious time and resources following myboring, predictable life?”
He frowns. “I’ll tell you why: Heyworth Thorne.”
“My father?”
“Sí. Don’t sound so surprised, Juliana. I’m sure you’ve gotten enough reminders this week alone as to why someone might have a grudge against your father. WhyImight…”
Ah. A not-so-subtle insinuation that he’s spied on me in my office as well. “So you know about the messages I’ve gotten. Friends of yours?”
