Page 60 of A Touch of Dark
He waits, letting me keep the fragile reins of control.
And only now do I realize that the rain has stopped.
The storm has passed.
Uh-oh. The ominous thought tugs me awake and my brain sluggishly tries to decipher why. There are the usual suspects. Uh-oh, I’m late for work. Uh-oh, I’m having a horrendous flashback. Uh-oh, Daddy’s pounding on my door, demanding I reassure him of how happy and healthy I am.
All of those would be preferable to the slow realization that someone else is in my bed. Someone large, their limbs skewing the surface of my mattress to one side. Someone who smells of sin and cognac, and inexplicably of roses.
Uh-oh.
I peel my eyes open to a view of my ceiling. Gray daylight streams across it, alluding to a final break in the storms. If only that peace could translate into my current reality.
Even his breathing resembles thunder. Low and unassuming until I finally notice it. With every additional note, I find myself tensing with the next unnerving rumble.
I turn in his likely direction, all the while desperately gathering up the nerve to do what must be done. Scream. Fight. Kick him the hell out.
Or stare.
He’s a creature made of shadow who has an unholy affair with sunlight. No matter how faint, it paints detail into his skin, fleshing out what dimmer surroundings disguise. Like the subtle lines around his mouth that hint at his age. The faint gold in his skin. The blue-black tint to his hair, and the slight quirk in his jaw that betrays when he’s awake.
“Good morning, Ms. Thorne.”
“I could have you arrested for trespassing,” I tell him, hoping I sound intimidating enough. Not exhausted. Uh-oh, uh-oh. There’s a bitter taste on my tongue. Residue from a horrific flashback. I can only recall snippets. Good. I don’t remember the gist. Just that…
I clung to someone. Someone who coached me through the nightmare, their voice a rugged anchor. Someone who held me through gasping sobs. Someone with an accent like hellfire.
“You vomited,” he says. “Afterward, you removed the shirt.”
The blunt warning precedes the moment I finally look down and realize the horrifying truth. It comes in the pair of gray panties I’m wearing—nothing else.
“Y-you stripped me.” I instinctively cover my breasts with my hands.
“I’ll avert my gaze if you’d like,” Damien says dryly.
So the man has jokes. Apparently, my realizing that I slept mostly naked next to a psychopath amuses him.
Or not. His expression is tense. I can decipher the emotion conveyed on his face clearly, even with the blindfold obscuring most of it. Annoyance.
“Why…why did you stay?” My confusion confounds me almost as much as my lack of real anger does.
He’s right. A foul stench taints the air, and my vomit-soaked shirt is on the floor, neatly folded. I have a vague image in my head ripping the soiled clothing off by myself.
And I huddled against him rather than move. Something I rectify now by lurching from the mattress and into my closet. I snatch the first garment I see from its hanger and pull it on: a black cocktail dress worth more than Sharla from accounting’s weekly wages. And I just ruined it with vomit and tears.
To save face, I enter my room with my head held high as though I’m totally unaffected by the sight of Damien standing near my bed.
“I assume your father had good intentions when he hired your current security detail,” he says, sounding oddly neutral. “However, I shall take the liberty of installing my own men from now on. I can assure you that you won’t have a repeat of last night.”
Did he mean the near break-in, his impromptu visit, or both? I shake my head to clear it. Neither matters.
“I suppose I should feel flattered,” I admit. “Bodyguards installed by a criminal. I’m sure they excel at murder, and extortion, and whatever sordid talents men like you value.”
He doesn’t even wince. “When necessary.”
God, he actually sounds serious. A concerned Damien is the last thing I need.
“Why should you care?” I demand, placing my hands on my hips. “You hate my father. I bet you loved seeing me terrified—”
