Collateral Damage |+18|

3. This damn hair. [Part 2]

Days later, I’m called in for a meeting.

When I step into a small conference room, the first thing I feel is the weight of Matheo’s gaze on me, so tangible that I stop in the doorway. Scarlett seems to notice my discomfort and, to my surprise, leans toward me and whispers softly:

“Come on. You’ve got this.”

I swallow hard and, gathering my courage, walk in and sit beside Kacey, who squeezes my hand under the table and smiles at me before letting go.

I listen carefully to the client’s requests and preferences until we finally reach the choice of the color palette, and they leave that decision completely in my hands. Even so, I have to keep them informed of every advance and every decision I make throughout the project.

Matheo doesn’t say a single word during the entire meeting, but I feel his inquisitive gaze drilled into me the whole time. I don’t know whether I should be angry at being left alone with something I have no experience in or grateful for the freedom to interact directly with the client in order to achieve the best results. Either way, it’s clear that my interests weren’t exactly what he had in mind.

When one of the girls from downstairs comes in offering drinks, I ask for tea, while the others—except Matheo—order coffee. I’m about to take my first sip when a firm hand closes around my wrist and stops me.

I hear several startled gasps around me, but I’m incapable of making a sound in the face of his actions. I freeze in place and, after several seconds staring at the expensive watch on the wrist that’s still holding me, I lift my gaze until it collides with Matheo’s gray eyes.

He’s leaning toward me, his torso braced against the table, messing up the paperwork in his urgent need to reach me.

“Can you drink that?”

“What?”

“The tea. Can you drink it?”

I shift in my seat, casting a glance at the others, who are watching us in shock.

He can’t be doing this. He can’t be interrupting the meeting like this.

“I don’t underst—”

“Some teas have caffeine.”

“Oh,” I murmur, unable to come up with anything else to say.

“Can you drink it?” he asks again, this time with a hint of irritation in his voice.

“It’s chamomile,” I say slowly, completely bewildered. “There’s no coffee.”

He nods and finally lets go of me, returning to his seat.

“Good. Then you can drink it.”

I swear to God, I don’t do it on purpose, but when I hear the implicit permission in his order-laden voice, I spit the tea straight onto his face.

But what the hell did he just say?

I don’t need his consent to drink a f*****g chamomile tea.

He stares at me, breathing hard through his nose, probably planning what to do with me, still under everyone’s stunned gaze, all of them watching our every move. The tension thickens, stretching into a heavy, silent eternity, until he finally growls:

“Kacey, get everyone out of here. Now.”

Oh no.

No, no, no.

I try to pull away from his grip, but I can’t. More than his fingers around my wrist, it’s his impenetrable stare that keeps me anchored to the chair.

Kacey ushers everyone out of the room and, at the very last second, I catch Scarlett looking at us—from Matheo to me—with clear suspicion in her eyes.

Can this get any worse?

And why the hell are they leaving me alone with this psychopath?

Can’t they see he wants to kill me?

“You’re staying,” he growls when I try to leave.

“Let go of me,” I growl back.

And then he does—only to wipe the tea dripping down his face. He slowly shakes the soaked fingers and looks at me with a cynical smile, loaded with something so damn dangerous that a shiver runs down my spine.

My feet move toward the door, but I barely take one step before my wrist is caught and my body shoved backward. I feel his firm hands on my waist as he pins me against the massive table; however, the moment he has me where he wants me, he pulls them away and plants them flat on the wood, one on each side of my body, without touching me.

Everything happens so fast and so roughly that when our faces end up inches apart, I’m almost hyperventilating. My chest rises and falls violently, out of control, while he remains disturbingly calm, watching me with an almost inhuman serenity.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” he whispers. His voice is low, almost controlled, but the expression on his face is lethal. “You’re a disaster. You attract trouble like a magnet. You trip at every corner and turn everything into a catastrophe.”

“Asshole,” I whisper, pushing at his chest, but he doesn’t move an inch.

“You’re the most unbearable person I’ve ever met in my life.”

“Fire me.”

He laughs, shaking his head vehemently.

“Don’t tempt me, sweetheart.”

He drags his teeth over his lower lip, staring at me with overflowing rage, but there’s something much deeper there, an invisible force that keeps our bodies far too close even when they shouldn’t be.

“And this damn hair,” he suddenly snarls, grabbing my loose hair in one hand and forcing my face back. “Why the f**k don’t you have it tied up? It’s just like you—a f*****g disaster.”

“You can’t control everything, Mr. Slade,” I murmur almost voicelessly, shocked by his actions.

He smiles again in that cynical way that makes me want to smash his face with my fist.

“Are you sure?” he asks, then spins me around, bending me quickly over the desk.

I moan, squeezing my eyes shut when heat explodes in my belly.

What the hell are we doing?

“Goddamn you, Defne,” he growls into my ear, giving a light tug on my hair, still trapped in his fist. My neck is exposed for his complete pleasure. My eyes close when I feel him catch a piece of my skin between his teeth; he sucks for a second before releasing it with a wet pop that, I swear, echoes through the room. “If you mess up this project even a little, I’ll fire you.”

His words snap me back to reality and, in a swift movement, I drive my elbow backward into his stomach. He lets go immediately, and I turn to face him, burning with rage.

“If you think I’m so incompetent, why don’t you just give the project to someone else?”

“The client asked for you,” he replies, his voice hard again, just like it was days ago in Scarlett’s office.

“And the client gets what they want,” I say, looking down at him with superiority. “Well, it seems the one in control here… is me.”

He smiles without showing his teeth, more like he’s holding back a curse.

“Are you challenging me?”

I shrug with feigned innocence, leaving the answer hanging in the air. Then I head for the door, ignoring his voice calling after me:

“Defne.”

“Enjoy your days off, now that you’re handing me the power, Mr. Slade. You’ll hear about the project’s progress soon—and don’t doubt that I’ll keep you informed… only if necessary.”

“I swear to God, Defne—”

But I don’t hear how he finishes, because I close the door behind me, drowning out the anger in his voice.

Suck on that, asshole.