Chapter 13 Elodie
Elodie
Istir from a deep sleep, my body heavy as I roll onto my side.
For a few seconds, I lie still, waiting for awareness to return. Then I open my eyes slowly.
My gaze lands on thick silver-gray curtains covering the windows. Streaks of sunlight peek through the edges as if waiting for an invitation to come in.
I sit up and realize I’m wearing a T-shirt that isn’t mine. At the same time, memory hits, followed by a sharp ache in my chest and my face. But as the events of last night come rushing back, pain becomes the least of my worries.
Dorian.
I’m in his bed. In his home.
Levi brought me here. The Vale family doctor had been waiting for us before we even arrived. He inspected my injuries thoroughly and made sure nothing was seriously wrong before sending me to bed. Not even my own doctor, whom I’ve known all my life, has ever shown me that kind of care.
But then, he’d never needed to. Up until last night, I’d never required such keen attention. Checking my bones weren’t broken.
Checking my lungs hadn’t collapsed.
Checking my vision was still intact.
I still can’t believe what happened to me.
Marcus and his asshole henchmen beat me. They actually beat me and threatened my life and my friend.
My breathing slows, and tears threaten to fall, but I squeeze my eyes shut for two heartbeats and force everything back.
I can’t cry now. God, if I start, I don’t think I’ll be able to stop.
I drag a hand over my face, then pull in a deep breath and let it out slowly.
Dorian Vale is the last man I ever thought I’d need, yet when everything went to hell, he was the one I turned to. And he helped me.
The fact that I’m here, that it’s morning, and that nothing more has happened so far means he saved me. I fell asleep before anyone could tell me what happened after Dorian went to see Marcus.
I need to find him.
I just hope the nightmare is over. That nothing else happened. That Dorian didn’t get hurt.
I glance at the clock on the wall across from me. It’s eight. Hopefully, he’s still here and hasn’t left for work yet.
Carefully, I slide out of bed, ignoring the pain. My feet sink into the fluffy cream carpet, and the room tilts.
I steady myself, then head for the door.
I make my way downstairs, taking in the pristine décor. The place has a less-is-more, cosmopolitan look that screams billionaire recluse. It suits Dorian.
When I reach the bottom of the stairs, I look around, wondering where I should go.
The soft sizzle of something in a frying pan answers the question for me.
I look toward the kitchen and follow the sound. The aroma of breakfast meets me halfway; it smells delicious. I stop in the doorway.
Dorian is standing by the stove, his big, broad back facing me with a wolf’s head inked into his skin.
He’s shirtless and all muscle and ink.
Gray sweatpants hang low on his hips, and the sight of him in such an ordinary, domestic setting throws me.
For one ridiculous moment, my brain goes blank and I forget myself. Or rather, I remember the version of me who used to call him her Dorian Gray.
It’s odd watching him while he cooks. I would have thought he’d have live-in house staff waiting on him like his family. Someone was here last night. An elderly man. Perhaps he was only around for the day.
Dorian moves the food around in the pan. Eggs and strips of bacon come into view.
With a subtle tilt of his head, he glances over his shoulder, sensing me standing there.
He sets his spatula down, and his eyes find me, his expression hardening as he settles on my face.
Damn it. I should have probably looked in the mirror before I came down here. God knows what I must look like. I know my face is still swollen and probably bruised worse than last night. Oh well, too late now. I’m here.
I stand straighter and try to school my thoughts, but those eyes of his pin me in place like nails.
“Morning,” I speak first because I should.
“Sit.” Typical Dorian. Straight to the point.
I move toward the kitchen island and sit on the stool opposite him.
For a moment, he stares at me, then turns back to the stove.
“I’m making breakfast,” he says after a beat. “Do you want some?”
“I’m not that hungry.” It’s true. I can’t eat when there is so much going on.
“Well, I’m serving you a plate.” He flips a slice of bacon in the pan. “You look frail. You need to eat.”
I don’t argue. He’s right. And there’s something about him noticing what I need that gives me comfort.
“Thank you,” I rasp.
He reaches for a plate, serves a decent helping of food, then faces me, moves closer, and sets the plate before me.
“Eat,” he orders.
I meet his firm stare with my own. I can’t just sit here and eat in this tension. I need to know what’s going on.
“Thank you for what you did for me.” The words come out in a rush. “I don’t know what happened, but I know you sorted it out.”
His brows knit and he frowns. “Eat, and we’ll talk.”
It takes me a moment to look away. He keeps his eyes on me, and I know he’s waiting for me to start eating.
I grab the fork, pick up some of the eggs, and ease it into my mouth. They taste delicious with a hint of a tangy seasoning, but I have a hard time swallowing. After everything that’s happened, my appetite has gone to hell.
“How are you feeling?” he asks, stopping the silence from stretching.
His probing gaze is so potent, it feels like he’s trying to see what’s inside my mind.
My throat tightens, but I speak. “I feel like shit. Like someone ran me over with a bulldozer a million times, then tossed me in hell.”
His frown deepens. “Marcus won’t bother you again. I paid the debt and gave him a warning he’d do well to remember.”
What kind of warning would he have given a man like Marcus?
The hint of a smile ghosts across his lips, giving him that… psychotic look. My skin tingles. Not in a bad way, which should worry me.
“What if he doesn’t listen?” I swallow hard.
“He will.”
“I can’t thank you enough.”
He shakes his head. “Don’t thank me yet.”
“Well, I am. And I will pay you back.” I don’t want to owe anybody. “Every cent.”
“Eat.” He motions to the food.
I take another few bites, and as the food settles, I actually start feeling better.
“We can talk about payment another time,” he states, stepping away from the counter.
I set the fork down. “I insist. I’d like to talk about it now. You paid a hell of a lot of money for me. You saved me.”
I know what he’s like. He’s supposed to be cold and uncaring, so when he does things like this, he always pushes them aside. As though he can’t stand anyone thinking he’s grown a heart.
For a moment, he just watches me, then the tension in his expression loosens. “Spoken to Jack yet?” he asks as if we’d already been talking about Jack.
“No.”
He leans closer. “Tell me, has he contacted you since you told him about the loan?”
I know exactly why he’s asking that question. And we both already know the answer.
“No.”
I’ve never had to defend Jack to Dorian, but I have with other people. People who called him all sorts of names after we lost the business. They felt he could have done more, if only to take care of me.
Jack didn’t care about what people said. But I did. Mostly because I knew deep down, they were right.
Dorian is right to ask me about Jack because my brother practically abandoned me to doom. He never returned any of my messages or called me. I understood he couldn’t help. I didn’t expect anyone to save me from the mess I got myself in, but he’s my brother. He could have at least checked on me.
“I have two offers for you.” Dorian sets his hands on the counter.
Every muscle in my body goes tense.
“Okay,” I say slowly, giving him a thin stare. “Two offers?”
His gaze doesn’t move. “Yes. Let’s just say one of them will be mutually beneficial.”
I keep staring at him. “What are they?”
“The first option is simple. You pay me back,” he answers, calm as ever.
I nod immediately. “Yes. Of course. I can pay something at the end of the month.”
“You can pay it back in installments. However much you can manage. However long it takes.”
Some of the tightness in my chest eases. “Really? Because that might take a while.”
“That’s fine.”
God. It will probably take forever to pay him back, but at least it’s better than owing Marcus. And I get to keep my life.
Dorian watches me for a moment, like he’s measuring something in my face. His first offer is a good deal. But what’s the second offer? And how would it be mutually beneficial? There’s nothing I can do for him.
“What’s offer number two?”
Something shifts in his expression then. He seems almost colder as he looks me straight in the eye. “The second offer is, you marry me.”
Everything inside me goes completely still.
I stare at him, and the thought occurs to me that maybe I’m still asleep. Surely, I’m dreaming. There is no universe or reality in which Dorian Vale would ask me to marry him.
But the man before me is very real. So… this is really happening.
“I’m sorry… what did you just say?” I press my hand against the counter, hoping to find purchase.
“You become my wife. If you do, the debt disappears.”
I blink at him, waiting for him to tell me he’s joking. Because he must be. But there’s no smile, no further explanation, just waiting.
“You’re actually serious.” I press a hand to my chest and take a quick breath.
“I am.”
The kitchen tilts around me, and the world warps into a surreal painting where I can’t tell which way is up or down.
The only thing that remains still and steady is him—Dorian Vale with his stern expression, the expectant look in his eyes, and the slight bulge of one tattooed bicep when he eventually straightens and crosses his arms.
A minute ago, I was calculating my debt repayment. Now an offer of marriage is on the table like it was the next logical step in this conversation.
How the hell did that happen?
And something about this screams fishy. What kind of person offers marriage to pay off a debt?
He does, of course.