Page 24 of Vow to Protect
She trots away, clapping her hands. The second she rounds the corner, I drag off my coat and march to my home gym, locking the door behind me. I unbuckle my belt, step out of my trousers and rip off the top suffocating my torso.
After I select an energetic tune from the built-in computer, I wrap my hands but leave off my boxing gloves. As the music surrounds me and my pulse revs, I start with quick jabs. The leather bag doesn’t budge, which sparks my annoyance. Punch after punch, I punish and pound. Violence reigns. Sweat pours. Torment spikes.
Raen’s face plagues me. My fists thump faster. Blow after blow, I imagine her lips all over me. Anguish. Arousal. Confusion. Desire. I can’t forgive myself for this betrayal. I won’t give in to the temptation. My daughter needs stability. She deserves all of my attention. I’ll figure out how to function again on my terms. When I’m ready.
When my knuckles throb, I slow the pace until my forehead slams into the sandbag. My dick is torturously hard, hands burning and chest tight. With my pain threshold soaring and my adrenaline high, I give myself permission to ease the built-up tension. I feel pain, not lust. I want a release, not a connection.
Under the bright spotlights, I take my length with harsh strokes, visualising my lost love, Syrah. Quickly the fantasy is corrupted. One woman strips away her voice, disguises her face, wraps her mouth around the top of my dick—Raen.
I grunt into the pleasure, sucking in lust and exhaling my revulsion. Don’t let this be a fucking mistake.
The living roomis bare like the bedroom—austere and bland. A long couch the colour of stone is the centrepiece, while a massive flat screen television hangs on the wall above a false fireplace. Large sash windows allow the pale grey sky to blend with white walls. I switched on the TV for noise after Brett stormed out earlier, but the world news was just as depressing as my unimaginative surroundings.
A croissant sat in my belly like a tennis ball, and I drank all the coffee out of boredom. Even pumped with caffeine, I nodded off, watching a dull journalist preach about global climate change. I woke up in the afternoon, still groggy and still imprisoned.
Brett has promised my safety, I get that, but I’m restless and—trapped. Neither of us knows the other. How do I know he’ll actually let me go, or that he really plans to help me escape? I’m placing a lot of hope on one man. At least I have that now, and for that I’m grateful.
Every nerve cell in my body is on high alert. I’m not sure if it’s the anticipation of seeing him again, or the danger of dropping off Blaine’s radar and onto Brett’s. However, I’ve learnt enough about Blaine to understand he doesn’t like it when other people have the upper hand, especially women. He’s not sitting back thankful I’ve been taken off his hands. He’ll be furious. Cutting up whoever gets in his way. Planning my death with precision and patience. The sooner I cross over the ocean, the better.
After a quick shower with a milky bar of soap, I wrap myself up in a fluffy towel and potter into the bedroom with sopping unbrushed curls dripping down my back. I peer out the window, studying the old cityscape of Dublin. Mindlessly, I finger the red lines slashed along the soft skin of my left breast. Blaine’s threat is still out there. I’m in the same postal code, under the same sky, waiting for his next move. My hand jerks away from the scars, leaving them to heal. Chewing the sides of my nails doesn’t help to appease the danger because the fire inside my belly swells with so much hatred that I feel faint.
Spicy musk infiltrates my spiraling thoughts, tripping my heartbeat. Someone’s here. I spin around, wide-eyed and ready to bolt to the bathroom for cover.
“I have clothes for you.” The gravelly timbre excites me in ways it shouldn’t. It’s both comfort and safety, streaked with the unknown. “And cake,” Brett adds.
He stands in the doorway, a shoulder hitched on the frame and thick lashes lowered as if he’s trying not to look at my body. This time he’s wearing fitted trousers with a starched white shirt beneath a pinstripe waistcoat.
“Cake?” I’m taken aback by the gesture and how his sudden appearance has brightened the dull afternoon.
Slowly, his gaze moves from my toes and drifts to the flaming mark peering out from under the towel. I notice how he sucks in a breath like he can’t breathe under his smart clothes. He nods, scraping fingers through the thick mound of inky hair on top of his head. My skin prickles as if his hands are all over me instead of his eyes.
“Thank you.” I smile, pouring every drop of gratitude into the movement.
He’s silent for a beat, then coughs into his fist. “Clothes and cake get a thank you, but saving your life got an interrogation?” A ghost of a smirk plays on his wet lips.
“You brought cake,” I say shyly. “No one has ever given me cake.” I edge away from the window, padding further into the room.
“I didn’t bring itforyou, as such. I want your opinion. Tell me which cake tastes the best. The nanny hates cake. She breaks out in hives. Cake is fucking cake, but this is an important decision.” He pushes off the frame, lifting his gaze, automatically meeting my shock.
Brett De Courcy is magnificent, and when he folds his arms, I peer at the muscles beneath his shirt. The playboy who fucked the stripper. He’s the non-committal type. My sister's past. “Natalie and I weren’t that close,” I point out. “She turned up at my door after years of silence. Nat was the wild one, always chasing money and men. I shouldn’t have judged you. I’m sorry.”
“And which one are you?” he asks with a subtle smirk.
“I’m the artist. The realist. The independent one.”
Brett continues to stare. I love how his shirt sleeves are rolled to his elbows and his top button is undone. He has a distinct way about him, an effortless vibe of a powerful man. The essence of a hunter gatherer and the aura of a guardian. It’s not only his confidence or distinct features that have me intrigued, but his quiet assessment of every move I make.
“An artist?” he repeats, cocking an eyebrow.
“Oil paints, charcoals, pastels. I use anything I can get my hands on.” It’s odd how my voice sounds small after his manly baritone.
Brett offers a natural full smile, completely disarming me. I’m not sure why, or how, but something inside me falters when our eyes meet. I can’t explain how that one moment between us has unequivocally altered my life. I return the smile and look to the floor when my heart beats faster.
I reach for the towel and shift it higher, subtly covering the mark. “Well, I’m grateful you brought cake, and, you know—” I rock forward on the balls of my feet and press my lips together. “For putting me up in this nice apartment, and for saving my life.”
“I bought it for Natalie a few weeks after the DNA results came in. She flatly refused to see it.” His shoulders lift to his jaw and drop lightly.
“And you held on to it?”
