Chapter 23
Twenty-Three
Blair
There hasn’t been a single day since he arrived that I didn’t dread seeing Damien Mallory’s face.
Starting your morning with a person who hates you and thinks you’re the biggest idiot to ever live is pretty shitty.
Throw in a run through the icy grounds, the looming promise of literally nothing to look forward to, and getting back on my seasonal depression meds was starting to seem like a no-brainer.
Then the other day happened, and for a minute there, I was sure my life was going to get a whole lot worse.
Except it didn’t. And, when I open my eyes the morning after my day of freedom, I find myself not dreading the sight of Damien Mallory’s face quite as much as I did yesterday.
There is still some dread, though, as the wind howls loudly outside my bedroom window, promising an even more miserable running experience than usual.
It’s only the thought of muddying the slate he seems to be trying to wipe clean that has me forcing my stiff, reluctant limbs into a standing position and shuffling over the cold floor into the bathroom.
As in, on my own with time to spare. No banging on the door or ice water required.
Yesterday was probably the best day I’ve had in years. Summer and I walked all over Port Briar. She showed me all her favorite haunts, and it was nice to know that the easy, familiar friendship we’d fallen into on the days I helped her clean the house translated to the real world, too.
Though I caught a glimpse of the black Land Rover parked down the street from us a few times, Mallory kept his word, allowing us to enjoy the day without him shadowing me.
The only time I heard from him was when he sent a voice memo with the specifics on our confirmed pasta-making demonstration.
The simple thoughtfulness of that—sending the information in a way that wouldn’t force me to stop what I’m doing to squint at my phone screen for five minutes, or use the text-to-speech app in front of Summer—took me off guard.
I didn’t call him to pick me up until nearly nine, when my feet were aching from all the walking we’d done, and both Summer and I were yawning.
She hugged me goodbye in front of the bar, promising to see me at work on Tuesday, and I was still smiling when I dropped into the passenger seat beside Mallory.
When I’d thanked him for organizing it all, he’d merely hummed, pulling out into traffic.
I’m still not quite clear what his motivations are here—a personality transplant also seems possible—but as I move through my typical morning routine, washing my face and brushing my teeth, I allow my mind to wander to the sexually charged element of my relationship with Mallory.
Before all this, I’d been committed to using his attraction to me as a weapon against him, but now that he’s actually being nice to me…
Am I supposed to just ignore it? Pretend I didn’t flounce out of a Century dressing room in nothing but sheer cotton and grind all over his dick? Forget about the kiss we shared on the way back to Thornhurst, and the life-altering, impossibly hot sex we had the morning after?
A weight drops into my pelvis at the memory, spreading heat through my core, but I focus on brushing my hair into a ponytail, resolutely ignoring it.
For the first time ever, it’s exactly six o’clock when I leave my bedroom and make my way through the quiet, darkened house to the foyer.
Mallory is already there, dressed for the weather in a sporty jacket and sweatpants.
He glances up at me as I descend the staircase, a hint of pleasant surprise in his expression.
“Good morning,” he offers when I stop beside him, already shaking out my stiff, achy limbs.
A perfectly civil greeting, for the second morning in a row.
“Good morning,” I reply, wishing I could banish the lingering heat in my core, which flared noticeably at the sight of him.
Lacing my fingers together, I stretch my arms up and over my head, eyes on the door. “You should know that I’ve decided to stop calling you Satan. As a gesture of commitment to our peace treaty.”
“Very generous.” My heart flutters as a quick glance to the man on my right shows his lips have quirked into a wry smile—Those freaking dimples. “I’ll have to think of a comparable offering.”
Promptly, my imagination provides a selection of offerings he could give me which would be more than sufficient.
We go quiet. Our sneakers squeak against the floor as we move through the familiar stretches to warm up, and though I keep catching sight of his movements at the edge of my vision, I keep my attention focused away.
Ordinarily, we’d be on the move by now. However, as wind buffets the house, rattling the large, paned glass window to our right, I get the sense that we’re both dawdling.
I hazard a glance over at him. “I really don’t want to run in this,” I confess with a feeble, watery laugh, as another wave of freezing rain lashes harder against the windows.
Even with our new peace treaty in effect, I don’t actually expect him to call it off, though. Satan—Mallory is nothing if not committed to his morning routine, and even if I don’t particularly enjoy running, I’ve settled into it, too. Just not today. Today is going to suck.
He surprises me, though.
“Neither do I,” Mallory admits, and I see him grimace as he looks out at the stormy sky beyond the window. “Unfortunately, the closest gym is a forty-five-minute drive from here. With the weather turning, maybe we’ll have to look into getting some treadmills.”
I have another idea.
Hesitantly, I let my arms drop back to my sides. “Do you swim?”
“Swim?” He glances at me, frowning. “I know how to, if that’s what you’re asking.”
Good enough for me.
Without offering further explanation, I nod toward the back of the house. “Come on. I have a less terrible alternative to running through freezing rain.”
I can tell he wants to ask more but seems to be endeavoring to play nicely because he allows me to take the lead. We don’t speak as I lead the way through the house, only stopping when we’ve reached one of the unmarked doors at the back of the kitchen.
“When I was a child, I called this the grotto,” I tell him, casting a sly smile over my shoulder as I open it, and we’re hit by a wall of warm humidity. It’s an effort not to laugh at the wary expression on his face.
A flight of stone steps descends into the foundation of the house, curved, so you can’t see what lies at the bottom. Without offering further explanation, and relishing his confusion a little, I move forward.
Located in what was once a root cellar, the pool lights cast an unearthly, greenish light onto the arched stone ceiling. The room is quiet and still, apart from the gently swirling water, and I hear Mallory’s surprised intake of breath as he comes into view and realizes where I’ve brought him.
The air is warm, much warmer than the rest of Thornhurst, and I used to spend hours in here when we visited, pretending it was a secret mermaid cave, and I was the only human they trusted.
“You didn’t know this was here?” I ask, and the question echoes through the whole room as I stop when I reach the bottom of the stairs, breathing in the salt and stone that hangs in the air as I toe off my sneakers.
He doesn’t answer right away. Moments pass before I hear the soft thud of his shoes on the stone behind me, like he had to convince himself to follow.
In the weeks that I’ve known him, I haven’t seen this man hesitate over much of anything, and the fact that I’ve taken him off guard is beyond satisfying.
“No,” he finally says from behind me, and his voice sounds different, confined in this small, darkened space.
“Freddy didn’t include this in his tour.
On the blueprints, it’s marked as a cellar.
” There is an air of suspicion in his voice, like he knows why our old head of security neglected to mention it, but he doesn’t elaborate.
I’m in the process of stripping off my socks when he moves past me.
Straightening up, I watch cautiously as he walks a slow circle around the pool, taking everything in. He’s trying not to show it, but I can tell he likes it here. As he concludes his inspection, his shoulders lose a fraction of their tension, and his inky eyes have softened just a bit.
We stand side by side, staring at the glowing pool.
My fingers find the hem of my thermal running shirt. “So, you’re telling me you don’t know everything, then?”
Mallory glances at me just in time to see me lift the garment over my head. In the time it takes me to toss it onto a nearby bench, however, he’s already looked away. His throat bobs. “I never claimed to know everything.”
That makes me laugh, the noise echoing off the walls like a strange, fading song. “You certainly had me fooled.”
A weight drops into my core as I hook my thumbs beneath the waistband of my leggings and peel them down my legs.
Under my clothes, I’m not wearing anything special at all, just a black sports bra and cheeky pink panties.
It’s more coverage than the average bikini, and he’s already seen every inch of me.
Still, there’s something about undressing in front of this man when we’re wholly and completely alone that has a prickling, uneasy desire spreading beneath my skin.
It takes more courage for me to look at him than it did to undress, but when I do, I find Mallory’s eyes already on me. His mouth pulls into something between a scowl and a smirk.
That’s all it takes for my pulse to stutter, and the muscles below my bellybutton go taut.
“I didn’t bring swimwear,” Mallory retorts, crossing his arms as if that objection settles the matter.
I arch a brow and shoot him a look that says, please, I’ve seen your dick.
“You’re wearing running clothes,” I point out, drawing away from him and toward the water as, from behind me, there comes the sound of a low groan.
“Blair—”