Chapter 12
Twelve
Damien
I’ve suspected since we met that Blair Porter must have sprung into existence as a twisted form of karmic retribution.
Lately, however, I’ve begun to wonder whether I’ve unknowingly done more damage than previously believed.
On Monday of this week, she produced a vial of fake holy water from her sports bra during our run and proceeded to flick it at me with fake hissing noises until I snatched the thing away and tossed it into the forest. After which, I endured a lecture from her on the evils of littering—in between much panting and complaining—while I tried not to imagine fucking her plump tits.
On Tuesday, I spent hours of my day troubleshooting why the floodlights on the grounds weren’t working, only to discover Blair had been turning the electrical breakers on and off at random when I wasn’t looking.
After realizing what was going on, I yelled at her while she ate grapes, and had a hard-on the entire time.
On Wednesday, she pretended to sprain her ankle while running and was in “such excruciating pain” that I relented to giving her a piggyback ride back to the house.
This endeavor wasn’t exactly easy, with my hands on her thighs and the warmth of her body bleeding into mine.
When I deposited her in a kitchen chair—intending to call for Porter’s personal on-call physician—Blair sprang up, thanked me for the ride, and skipped off toward her rooms.
Every fucking day, she finds a fresh, inventive way to drive me mad, and it may actually be working. Because, just as my irritation with the woman seems to grow more potent by the day, so does my attraction to her.
It’s perverse to find myself fantasizing about fucking the woman one minute and pushing her off a cliff the next. The two feelings—desire and loathing—shouldn’t be compatible and haven’t been in my experience. That is, until I wandered into the eye of the mad hurricane that is Princess Porter.
Through it all, though, I’ve kept myself together and have neither fucked her, pushed her off a cliff, nor worked my cock to the fantasy of doing either. I might not be able to help the intrusive thoughts and my body’s reaction to her, but I can certainly stop myself from acting on them.
I don’t know how long I can keep it up.
“Would you prefer Beelzebub or Bringer of Darkness on your tombstone? Just trying to plan ahead for when you’re inevitably struck down in the battle between good and evil.”
I pause, staring straight ahead at the Private Property: No Trespassing sign I’m attempting to nail into a tree, then down at the hammer I’m holding. “Are you at all concerned about the advisability of provoking someone who is holding a blunt instrument?”
Leaning against a nearby trunk, Blair merely sighs, her eyes in the sky.
We’re standing along the quiet country road which borders the estate’s eastern property line.
Behind us, hidden beyond the tree line, is a ten-foot-tall, barbed wire fence.
One which is now practically useless, thanks to the hundred-year-old sycamore which fell over it, somewhere between last week and now.
I’d spotted it on my run with Blair this morning and made a call to the groundskeeper when I returned to my cottage.
As the man hadn’t gotten back to me hours later, I decided that replacing the faded and rusted old warning signs would be today’s task.
I’d only been at it for half an hour before Blair appeared from out of the woods, apparently bored enough to seek me out and engage in her favorite hobby: instigating mental anguish.
I’m wary of having her out here, especially following the cookie picture incident.
The estate hasn’t received any more of the threatening letters, but I know better than to let my guard down.
Now that she’s appeared, I’m doubly distracted, listening for traffic and prepared to obscure her from the view of a passing car.
“If you aren’t going to leave, at least make yourself useful,” I tell her, after I’ve hung another sign, and it becomes clear Blair isn’t going anywhere. “Grab the crowbar over there and start pulling down the old signs.”
I don’t look at her, but after a pause, I hear her footsteps crunching over fallen leaves and debris as she moves toward the place where I left the tool.
“Does it seem advisable to give me a blunt instrument?” she asks as she brushes past, and I catch a faint hint of the scent of apples and honey that washed over me that day in her bedroom.
The weight of the hammer in my hand is satisfying as it comes down on a fresh nail, driving it into the tree. “Yes, actually. I’m hoping you’ll put me out of my misery.”
Blair lets out a bright, tinkling laugh, obviously delighted. “Oh, you really would love that, wouldn’t you? Retake your rightful throne in the underworld? An unlimited supply of souls to torture, instead of just me?”
“I would argue that I’m the only one being tortured here. Don’t you have anything better to do?” Unable to help myself, I glance over and see her frowning in concentration, trying to notch the tool over the rusted old nail without success.
“Nope,” she supplies, eyes narrowed on the offending nail.
Her handling of the bar is poor and inexperienced, as I would expect from someone who hasn’t had to do manual labor before in her life.
I don’t waste my breath attempting to offer advice, hoping her incompetence will get her frustrated enough to leave me in peace.
Of their own accord, my eyes drop to the curve of her ass through the petal-pink leggings she’s wearing.
“What about your schoolwork?” I ask, dragging my reluctant gaze away, and move past her to the next tree.
I’ve learned that bringing up the courses she’s being forced to take seems to be one of the only reliable ways to put Blair on edge, and my only truly effective weapon against the brat’s attitude. “If you’re out here, you must be finished with everything.”
Far down the road, I hear the distinct sound of an engine moving toward us. Without hesitating, I let the hammer fall to the ground. Stepping over to where Blair is struggling with the nail—her expression now scrunched up and indignant—I block her from view of the road with my own body.
“You’re doing it wrong,” I offer in explanation, reaching over her shoulder to take hold of the crowbar. She huffs but allows me to guide it to the appropriate place, and heat spreads through my chest as her back brushes my front.
All I can smell is apples and honey as, behind us, a freight truck rumbles past without slowing.
“You’ll have an easier time getting it under the sign itself. See?” My forearm brushes hers, and I pretend not to notice the tiny hitch of her breath, or the way the sound makes my abdomen go hard, desire pooling in my groin.
Fucking hell.
I draw away from her, returning to my own work, as with a groan, the aging sign falls onto the ground at Blair’s feet. “Ha!” she hisses, victorious, and from the corner of my vision, I watch her lean down to pick it up, examining the metal with interest.
Pinning a new sign to a neighboring tree, I feel my lips twist bitterly. “You never answered my question. About your courses.”
“They’re fine,” she answers too quickly.
Letting out a hard laugh, I bring the hammer down on the nail. “Why do I doubt that?”
Though I don’t look at her, I feel the weight of Blair’s gaze on my profile. “Oh, I don’t know,” she muses, an edge to her voice now. “Probably because you’re committed to thinking I’m an idiot.”
I don’t, actually. If anything, I’m disappointed in how her obvious intellect has largely been put to use looking for ways to avoid doing anything with it.
“An idiot? No.” I shoot her a nasty, scathing look. “Even idiots know how to use a crowbar without assistance.”
She glares at me, the bar hanging at her side in one hand, and the sign in the other. “Most people would say thank you for the help. This is your job, not mine.”
“What do you know about jobs, princess?” I sneer, savoring the savage, vindictive impulse to wound, a welcome alternative to the near-constant desire to fuck her senseless.
“Right now, your only job is to do as your daddy says, stay out of trouble, and complete your coursework like a good girl. How would you say you’re doing in that very difficult career path? ”
I’m only beginning to realize that as deeply as she seems to want to get a reaction from me, I crave the same from her. My chest expands, filling with a dark, twisted triumph as Blair’s expression flickers, registering that my hit landed.
She recovers in seconds, however, sneering as she allows the crowbar to fall to the ground at her feet and planting her hands on her hips. “How would you say you’re doing with yours? You hate me. You hate this place. Why not quit?”
Fuck, I can’t stand the sight of her. What I wouldn’t give to do just that: quit, leave, and never look back.
My answering smile is mocking. “I’m doing what suits me, and believe it or not, it has nothing to do with how unbelievably fucking insufferable you are.
The world does not revolve around you, princess, and you’re flattering yourself if you think a spoiled, immature child has any kind of power over me, never mind my career. ”
Blair takes a single step toward me, her features ridged with fury. “I might be a spoiled, immature child, but you’re a cruel, bitter asshole. Who hurt you? Who made you like this?” She scoffs, “Whatever. It doesn’t matter. Just do me a favor and stop acting like it was me.”
“Go.” I point up the hill toward the house, my lungs burning. “I’m done. Get the hell out of my face.”
For once, she doesn’t need to be told twice. “It would be my pleasure, you massive chunky shit,” Blair sneers, stepping over the fallen tool and up the embankment toward the opening in the fence, hands balled into fists at her sides.