Page 78 of A Touch of Dark
“I can give you that,” he says quietly, as if it really is that simple. The powerful Damien Villa can do anything. So why stop there?
“And,” I add, “I want you to stay with me. Until my birthday, anyway.”
“Stay with you.”
“In theory,” I reply, murmuring.
“For a year?”
I can’t tell if he believes me or not. To him a year must be a lifetime. For me, it’s merely a brief lull before a recurring nightmare. “Yes.”
“And I would stay with you?”
Suddenly, my eyelids weigh an unbearable amount and I let them drift shut. “It shouldn’t be hard.” Ironically, considering this is the price I’m naming for my body. “Send me fresh flowers every day. Stay with me when it storms. I’ll even let you stalk me if you have to. Keep me away from my father if that’s what you want. Just…”
“What?”
I almost forgot he was there, listening avidly to my slurred, disjointed wish list. “Just pretend that you actually give a damn… Pretend you want to keep me.”
Maybe then I’ll stop hearing Simon’s voice slithering inside my skull:This one will be missed. This one matters.
You made the right choice…
And I’ll never let you forget it.
* * *
For the secondday in a row, I wake up only to be bombarded by a million chilling realizations. One, I’m not wearing my own clothing. Soft cotton has taken the place of tailored silk.
Two, someone tucked me into bed, drawing the blankets over me with unnerving care.
Thirdly, and most confusing of all, I’m alone.
My breathing echoes loudly in the silence as I peel my eyes open to yet another overcast, stormy-gray sky. I’m not worried. Gritting my teeth, I climb out of bed and strip the gray pajama set someone dressed me in. I’m partially within a trademark black-pantsuit ensemble when I hear it.
A man’s voice.
The sound comes from my living room: a speaker rapidly communicating in a mixture of English and what I suspect to be Spanish. From his tone alone, I can tell he’s in the middle of what he seems to do best: dishing out orders.
Partly convinced it’s all a figment of my imagination, I leave my room half-dressed, only to be faced with a furious Damien pacing before my coveted view.
He must carry around impeccable suits wherever he goes. Today, his outfit of choice is gray with a muted tie in a similar hue. The moment I step closer, his head swivels in my direction. “Find him,” he snarls into a cell phone before shoving it into his pocket. “You’re awake,” he says gruffly.
I swallow hard, surprised to find my throat dry and my lips cracked. “You’re still here.” My tone inflects at the last second, turning the statement into a whispered question.Why?
“How do you feel?”
Exhaustion robs me of my usual filter. “Tired,” I admit. “I’m thirsty. Starving—”
“Side effects of hypothermia,” he interjects in a fittingly icy tone. “I’ll have something brought up.”
Before I can blink, the phone is at his ear and he’s snarling even more phrases in Spanish.
A glance beyond him reveals that he’s been busy. My couch looks as though a man roughly the size of Damien has occupied it for quite some time—God forbid slept on it. A nondescript stainless-steel mug rests on my coffee table. One sniff and I can tell the blend isn’t mine but the concoction of someone who prefers their caffeine black.
Do I dare believe he slept here overnight? Of course not. That would mean assuming he considered taking me up on my offer—and I already have anI was just delirious and joking, obviously,quip poised on the tip of my tongue. Seconds pass, but it never leaves my throat.
“You didn’t have to stay.”
