Auctioned heart

Chapter3

Damian narrows his eyes. “Are you drunk, Bella?”

Right. I have to be for asking something like that. Fatigue washes through me, and I stagger on my feet, the weight of the day resting on my shoulders. Of course, there is no way Damian Blackwood knows a thing about any accident.

Whoever this person is knows what happened all those years ago and is only trying to get back at me.

“Can you take me home, please?”

“I bought you.”

“I can’t spend the night here without any clothing. And I need someone to feed my dog when I am away. It is going to be a quick dash in, I promise.”

Damian nods and walks away from me, disappearing into the darkness. He returns a moment later in a black T-shirt and a pair of slacks. I am tempted to ask if the only color he has in his closet is black, but I press my lips shut as he walks past me, heading out into the night without as much as a glance.

I follow after him, getting into the passenger’s seat of his car. The ride is the quietest I have ever been in, but I don’t mind it. From the corner of my eye, I see his hands clench so hard on the wheel, like he is angry about something.

My gaze travels to those eyes fixated on the road. A muscle jerks in his jaw, and I swallow, pulling my gaze away from him. There are certain things I don’t understand tonight, and Damian Blackwood purchasing me is one of those things.

“Here,” I murmur, the first sound in the car since I gave him my address. He pulls into the driveway and kills the engine. “Ten minutes. Do not make me wait.”

Nodding, I pull myself out of the car and rush into my little apartment. I glance back for a fraction of a second, noting how out of place Damian’s car looks parked in my neighbourhood. I am tempted to ask him to come in, uncertain if he will be safe out there all alone.

But when I look back at my apartment, with clothes strewn everywhere, I decide it was a wrong decision and let it be.

I am in my room, packing an overnight bag because I don’t think Damian is serious about wanting an absolute stranger under his roof for a whole week. My hands are on my most decent jeans when I hear it.

A crash in my living room.

Abandoning the half-packed backpack, I rush back out with my breath caught in my throat.

But my steps falter when I meet Damian in my living room. His eyes aren’t on me. They are on the model car now, in ruins on the floor.

The last thing my father made for me before he died in that accident.

A sharp ache slits across my chest as I take a slow step towards the room. I am vaguely aware of Damian falling behind me as my foot hits one of the pieces. The side mirror.

I release a shaky breath, going down on my knees to pick up the pieces carefully. No matter what I do, it is impossible to build it back together. I should have learned when he wanted to teach me. Instead, I was so hooked on painting and making my own pieces.

He has been gone a while now. They both have been. Yet, the world does not know my name as I promised. And none of my pieces have been sold.

“Bella,” Damian whispers behind me. My name on his lips sounds like a line of prayer, whispered fervently. I don’t look at him. I cannot bear to face him.

Everything in me wants to yell at him for ruining the model car, but what use will it be? It is already done.

I feel his hands on my shoulders, and I turn around to face him. His eyes take in my features, and something passes through his eyes.

Pity? Remorse? Anger?

“You are crying,” he mutters, his thumb catching a bead of tear as it rolls down my cheeks. His lips part open and then slam shut again. He isn’t used to a situation like this. I can see the cluelessness in his eyes.

“What did you need?” I question, getting on my feet and pulling away from him. I sniff back the tears, wiping them hurriedly with the back of my hand.

“Bella…”

“I thought you were going to stay out in the car.”

“You can stay here tonight if you want to,” he murmurs, perhaps feeling guilty. It makes no sense still. Because Damian Blackwood doesn’t strike me as the kind of man to feel an emotion as feeble as guilt.

I shake my head, pulling my gaze away from the ruin. The more I stare at it, the more I feel like doing something I am sure I will regret when dawn arrives.

“Genevieve made a deal with you,” I whisper, then clear my throat noisily, giving it another try. “You already dropped all that money for the cause of the gallery. It is only fair that I stick to my own end of the deal.”

“You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.”

“I don’t have that liberty, Mr. Blackwood. Unlike you, born with a silver spoon, I was born into nothing, and even life had the guts to take that from me too.”

He eyes the broken model on the floor, and I stand there stupidly, waiting for the apology that never comes.

“My mother called,” he mutters instead. “I am supposed to have dinner at her place tonight. And as part of my purchase, you are supposed to come along with me.”

“Okay,” I whisper weakly. “I’ll just be a minute.”

I don’t wait till he is out of my living room before heading back into the room. I move mechanically, my hands shoving through the clothes in my little closet, searching for something appropriate.

But all it takes is for my eyes to fall on my parents’ picture by my desk and I slip to the floor, allowing the sobs rack through me.

Warm hands pull me away from the cold floor suddenly, and I am immersed in the scent of cedar and earth.

He came back.