Page 65 of A Touch of Dark
“It isn’t,” he says. “Though I’ll admit that I’ve considered it.”
I wrench my fingers from a strip of crust. “What? Why? Have I bored you to the point of murder?”
“Who said anything about killing you?” The grudging honesty in his tone is enough to help air trickle back into my lungs. For now. “No. I’m nowhere near finished with you yet. So eat.”
“So…” I toy with a different slice. “Was your aim to paralyze me, then?”
His glowering posture makes me aware of how I’m sitting: legs crossed, my free hand knotted in a fist to hide how it trembles.
“That is a matter we will discuss at another time. For now, I’ve humored your requests, so get the remaining one out of the way and ask your questions.” His tone reveals the threat he’s holding back.Then I’ll ask mine.
I find myself eyeing the corners of the room, desperate to stall this moment. There are so many damn things to ask. Looking at him, I settle on the most obvious. “Were you born blind?”
I already suspect the answer before he shakes his head. His drawings are far too detailed. Too raw. He must have some prior knowledge of the human body. Of women, and flowers, and lust-filled glances.
When he doesn’t speak, I’m prepared to accuse him of breaking our agreement. Before my lips can even part, he reaches behind his head. One tug of his fingers and the blindfold falls away.
“I apologize in advance for your appetite.”
Food quickly becomes the last thing on my mind. Faced with all of Damien, I can’t breathe.
I knew he was handsome, even with so much of his face obscured. Taking him in fully, I’m forced to admit that the man is nothing short of beautiful. Strong nose. Elegantly arched eyebrows. Chiseled cheekbones. He’s striking, despite the two vertical scars sealing his eyes shut. They’re silvered. Old. At least one of my theories is thoroughly debunked: He can’t see at all.
Horror robs me of any snarky response. I move my lips several times before I can croak out an actual word. “H-how?”
He bears the scrutiny for a few seconds longer before retying his blindfold with an ease that betrays years of practice. “I’ll spare you the dramatics,” he says simply. “One might say that I blinded myself.”
I’m not sure if I gasp or say something intelligible. Whatever I do makes his jaw clench, and he’s suddenly stone.
“I’ll preemptively answer your next question. Why? I can assure you that you wouldn’t understand the reason.”
He’s lying. No one could inflict wounds like that on their enemies, let alone themselves. I wouldn’t wish that agony on anyone. Even Simon.
“H-how long?”
He frowns as if he’s never stopped to tally up the years before. “Fifteen years,” he says finally. “I… It happened when I was nineteen.”
Which makes him only a few years older than I am. Odd. He seems so much older. A wizened man trapped inside the body of an exotically colored Adonis.
Curiosity keeps me questioning, even as the image of his scars lingers in my mind. “Where are you from?”
“A village in South America,” he says, “in a region you’ve most likely never heard of, with a name you’ll never be able to pronounce.”
Fair enough. “What made you come here?”
“My father was…let’s call him a judge, though not in the general sense. He was never elected, nor appointed to his position. He merely woke up one day and claimed it for himself.”
“Oh?” I’m simultaneously riveted and repulsed by his tone. He doesn’t speak of his father the way I speak of mine—Heyworth Thorne, anyway. There’s no love lost or hostility spared. No hero worship.
“Some might consider my old home less than conventional,” he adds, leaving it at that.
Which is an understatement if whatever he experienced forced him to blind himself at the age of nineteen. I’m tempted to ask, but I can take a hint. He won’t hold back, and what he might say could disturb more than my appetite.
Changing gears, I decide to ask a far more pertinent question. “How long have you been watching me?”
“Now be specific, Ms. Thorne. Do you want to know how long I’ve been aware of your existence or just how long I’ve taken apersonalinterest in your welfare?”
I suck in a breath. His tone dipped just one octave above the danger zone. “B-both.”
