Dangerous Desire

6

Dimitri always loved my hair. He brushed it obsessively, stroked it as I lay weeping after he beat me, used it as a leash wrapped tightly around his wrist to hold me in place as he used my body in the most brutal of ways. Killian found it useful, too. Easy to grab hold of and yank so I lost my footing. So I couldn’t get away.

“Won’t be so easy for them now,” I mutter to my reflection as I grab another handful and start cutting.

When I’m done, the sink is full of long golden-brown tresses. I stare at the pile of glinting locks, feeling strangely euphoric. I should’ve done this years ago.

A loud knock on the door. “Coming in.”

My pulse jumps at the sound of Killian’s voice. I thrust the shard of crystal into a pocket in my dress and walk out of the bathroom just as he’s striding through the door.

He’s carrying a tray. A glass of water clatters against a plate as he jolts to a stop when he sees me. After a long, hard look at my new haircut, he says, “I see you’ve been busy.”

I say nothing, fighting the urge to run my finger against the sharp edge of the hidden shard.

He walks to the small desk beneath the portholes and drops the tray onto its surface. Then he pulls out the chair, swivels it around to face him, and lowers his bulk to the seat, folding his arms over the back and staring at me expectantly.

When I don’t move, he jerks his head toward the tray of food. “Eat.”

My mouth has already begun to water at the smell of bacon. I can’t remember the last time I had food, but I’m in no mood for company. Especially his company.

I’m also in no mood to get knocked around again, so I do as I’m told.

I take the tray, sit on the edge of the bed, set the tray on my lap, and start to eat. With my fingers, because no cutlery has been provided.

Killian grunts in approval.

I could kill this bastard with my bare hands.

Swallowing proves difficult due to the swelling in my throat. I have to take several small sips of water in between bites. My discomfort is made worse by the intensity of Killian’s gaze, which is unwavering. I want to tell him to get lost—and oh, by the way, go straight to hell, you pathetic excuse for a human being—but I’m well practiced in the art of biting my tongue and biding my time.

As I’m tearing into a piece of buttered toast, he says, “There’s arnica ointment in that white tube next to your plate.”

I freeze. Arnica?

“For the bruising.” He looks at my neck. His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows. A muscle flexes in his jaw.

When his gaze flashes up to mine, I wipe the quizzical frown from my face and swallow my mouthful of toast. I take another careful sip of water and consider how to respond. Finally I go with a stiff “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

Color me extremely confused.

We sit in silence as I finish the rest of the food on my plate. Wheat toast, scrambled eggs, four pieces of bacon—it all goes down under Killian’s fixed, hawklike stare. When I’m done, I wipe my hands and mouth with the linen napkin, then set it back on the plate.

Then I stare at my knees and wait.

If he tries to hit me again, I’ll slice his neck open.

Just as the silence is becoming excruciating, Killian stands. I keep my gaze lowered as he takes the tray from my lap. He turns and steps away. I start to breathe easier, but when he turns back, my blood stops circulating.

With my chin between his fingers, he lifts my head. He inspects the bruising on my cheek, his eyes and face unreadable. Then he turns my head the other way and stares at my neck.

I hold perfectly still, not flinching or recoiling, not daring even to breathe. A fly caught in amber.

“That hurt?”

You know it does, bastard. My nod is almost imperceptible, but he understands.

“Learned your lesson, then?”

That low, raspy voice reveals nothing, but I know an offer when I hear one. I hate him, but I’ll take it if it means no more repeat performances of my unprotected flesh vs. his fists.

“Yes.”

The muscle in his jaw slides again. He exhales. It’s probably my imagination, but that quiet release of breath sounds relieved.

“Good. Give me that piece of broken vase in your pocket.”

When I don’t comply quickly enough, he adds gently, “Don’t make me tell you twice.”

I withdraw the piece of crystal and set it on the tray in the middle of the plate where the eggs had been, trying my best not to look guilty.

“When I come back, that mess will be cleaned up.” He glances at the shattered vase littering the floor, then back at me. “And you won’t try to hide anything from me again. Understood?”

Why is he being so nice? “Yes.”

He examines my face. Apparently finding my expression appropriately obedient, he drops his hand from under my chin and turns and leaves without another word, shutting the door quietly behind him.

The key turns in the lock and I’m left alone, wondering what I’m missing.

I’ve known my share of psychopaths, but I’ve never met one quite like this.