Page 26 of Vow to Protect
“Those two little words—thank you,” I mumble as the rose melts, coating my gums. I don’t miss his effort to not laugh. I see it. Moist lips quirk, and his pupils dilate. “It’s really sweet, and believe it or not…” I swallow. “It tastes like roses.”
“Do kids like roses?” His face scrunches. “I asked the bakery to make the top ten most popular cakes.”
“For kids?” I bite my lower lip. The slow scratch of his coarse peppered chin draws my gaze to his powerful jaw and back up to his long lashes. “I’m sure there’s a chocolate cake in there somewhere. Every kid adores chocolate cake,” I add in a gust of nerves. “Or maybe a rainbow layered cake?”
“Jesus Christ.” Brett reaches forward where a folded linen napkin sits neatly at the edge of the blanket. “I should’ve asked Gretchen to order the damn thing. She always sorts out this stuff. I thought—” He stops himself short, lifting the powder pink material.
A chilling noise rattles. The clink of metal. Dense clanking of blades grinding side by side. With a flick, he reveals two silver forks, and a serrated knife. There isn’t any thought involved as Brett casually collects the ivory handle in his palm, raising it before him like he could cut up the light. Why would he fear the basic cutlery he’s holding? He wasn’t pinned down by men. He hasn’t endured the biting sting of flesh separating with nothing to dull the sensation.
All I see is cold, hard steel.
A deadly weapon.
The announcement of blood.
A declaration of violence.
An invitation to meet death.
I scoot backward, scrambling on hands and knees. Each breath wheezes in my tight throat. An unsteady pulse races against time. A clatter alerts me to his movements. I climb the wall, swaying into it for support. Tremors in my thighs spread to my gut. The soles of my feet, my palms and the right side of my face all tingle as if tiny spikes are trying to paralyze me. I stagger around to face him, struggling to gasp for air.
“Raen.” The distant rumble of his voice starts a domino effect of quaking. Every hair becomes erect as I shake. He edges closer with palms wide apart, like a father attempting to console a wayward child. Serious eyes pin me, while shock ticks in his jaw. “I won’t hurt you.”
Hurt me. I’m already suffering. The careful whisper makes my heartbeat convulse. I back up, desperately clawing at the paintwork. Brett follows, inching into my personal space. His quick breathing sets alight confusing emotions. We’re so close now, our breath is the only thing that unites. I focus on his face, staring up at the concern flaring his pupils.
“Breathe, Raen,” he says, low and gruff, my name rasping with his upper-class Irish accent. “In through your nose. Out through your mouth.” His gaze holds me in place, fervent with compassion.
I inhale a shallow, unsatisfying puff of air and let gripping panic blow out of my lips. Together we work to steady my breathing. He counts while I fixate on his lips, his voice, his sexy clean scent and thick lashes blinking with a hypnotic beat. It grounds me to the moment, anchoring me in safety.
“That’s it. You’re okay. You’re safe.” He repeats.
My mouth dries like sand. Strands drape my shoulder blades, catching when I tip forward in relief, finally able to expand my lungs.
“Tell me how you got the scar on your chest.” Dark eyes narrow in on the cashmere spot shielding my mark.
I don’t move, immobilised and cautious. “Blaine. He told me it’s the final mark. The finishing point where he’ll insert his knife before he takes my life.”
Something akin to fury flashes behind his eyes. I witness the purest form of rage flicker in the earthy depths. I ought to fear the dark expanse, yet instead, I lean in so I can see how far it goes. He flinches when I lick my lips.
“Natalie had the same mark over her heart.” A palm lands on the wall beside my head like he’s bracing himself for a fall or using it as a prop to keep me at arm’s length.
I nod. “He stabbed her mark at the end. I’d lost count of the stab wounds, but I’ll never forget the last one. The one he made me watch at close range. The one that stole her life.”
Exhaustion drains me of my fight. Air blasts down my nostrils. I’m done reliving the memories, and I’m sick of living in fear. I lengthen my neck and swallow a hard lump. “Can you please get that knife out of here?”
His head bows. “Consider it done,” he says, then gifts me with a genuine sympathetic smile. I sway into him, losing myself to the opiate tug of his presence. “I’ve asked my people to rush through your new passport, Raen.” He takes a step back. “You’ll be out of here in a few days and away from Dublin forever.”
In one shuffle, my palms land on his shoulders. I rise on tiptoes, tipping into the side of his face. “Thank you.”
Before my lips grace his scruff, powerful hands cinch my waist, shoving me into the wall. “Back up. Don’t,” he snaps. “Don’t put your hands on me.” Every muscle in his body tenses. He cuffs my wrists, peeling my hands from his shirt.
I peer up into his eyes to find them distant––not sparkling with the stars of a cosmos but veiled and far away. “I was thanking you, nothing more.”
Relentless fingers tighten while his forehead looms closer ever so slightly. “Stop thanking me,” he bites out. And just like that, I witness him mentally withdraw. Within his glare, he rallies his defences, winds up the bridge and orders the archers to aim at the enemy.
My insides vibrate with frustration. It doesn’t have to be this way. He doesn’t need to be so confusing. His eyes tell me one thing, and his actions breed contempt. “I don’t like knives,” I say curtly. “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t bring them into this apartment while I’m here. And for the record, I was showing gratitude.”
“You don’t like knives, and I don’t like women touching me,” he grits out. Then, as if stung, he backs away.
