Chapter Nineteen
Amelia
M y eyes open to the feel of strong arms wrapped around me. I close them again and allow myself to bask in it, to feel the safety, the security. Pure bliss—before the thoughts come. The calm before the storm.
I test his grip, but his arms tighten around me like steel bands.
"Where do you think you're going?" His morning voice is enough to melt any woman alive.
"Bathroom," I whisper.
A low grunt, then his arms loosen just enough for me to slip away. I move fast before he changes his mind.
I finish my business. Then, stand in front of the mirror. My fingers trace my skin. My body no longer feels like mine. I did it. I finally lost the last thing that could have tethered me to my old life.
I broke every rule. I am a sinner now.
But God, does sin feel good. Damien makes it feel like heaven. How can something meant to damn me feel like salvation? How is that fair? I tell myself I don’t believe in the things my village preaches. I tell myself I don’t believe in their God. That I am not religious. But does that stop the guilt? No. No matter how much I try, I can’t look at myself without seeing someone who is ruined.
Damien materializes behind me in the mirror, a dark shadow swallowing the light. For a long moment, we just stare. He, at me. I, at him.
I take the time to admire the differences I definitely felt last night. He is tall, so much taller than me. My head barely reaches his shoulder. While my skin is soft and smooth, his is scarred and tattooed. Where I am soft, he is nothing but muscle. Darkness and light. Predator and prey.
He kisses my shoulder. I let him touch me, own me, possess me with just a press of his lips.
I look down, and it’s as if I only now realize I’m naked. That shyness? That fear? It’s gone. It evaporated into the steam curling from the bath he’s drawing.
He turns the water off and holds out his hand. "Come."
I take it, and he leads me into the water. He sinks into the tub first, pulling me in after him until my back rests against his chest. I trace patterns on his damp skin, writing out all the things I feel inside.
"What’s wrong?"
I hesitate. But this man has seen me naked. This man kissed me between the legs. What’s left to hide?
"I feel dirty."
"Don’t," he growls. "You feel me. That’s what you feel. And I don’t make you dirty. I make you mine."
He tips my chin up, so I have no choice but to meet his eyes. They are darker than before; nearly black. Consuming.
"Listen to me, little flower. Nothing will ever make you feel filthy for wanting this. For wanting me. They don’t get to soil what belongs to me."
A breath catches in my throat.
"You think this is sin? Then let it be sin. I’ll worship at your feet, damn myself over and over again just to taste you. You are not wrong for wanting this. You are not wrong for taking what’s yours. Do you understand me?"
"But—"
"No but. There is nothing filthy about you and me. What we do together is sacred."
Something that feels a lot like salvation wrapped in destruction rakes over me at his words.
"You are my religion now. And I don’t pray to anyone but you."
This man who breaks me apart then puts me back together in whatever way he pleases… and I let him.
Maybe I am ruined. But is that so bad?
I prop myself up, turning to face him. I trace over a scar carved into his chest; a jagged line that makes him flinch. Shame dulls his eyes.
"You can’t tell me not to feel dirty," I whisper, my touch feather-light against his skin, "when you’re ashamed of your scars."
His jaw clenches. A muscle ticks in his cheek.
"I’m not ashamed."
"Liar."
I lean in, pressing my lips to the raised mark. Then another. Then another.
"They’re beautiful."
"You’ll make me believe it one day, little flower."
Warmth spreads through my chest. But then, reality crashes in like a wrecking ball.
Work.
I jolt upright, slipping from his grasp. He watches, amused, as I frantically towel myself dry. I run to the bedroom. My bra is under the bed. Great. I retrieve it, snap it on, and then reach for the dress.
"Where are my panties?" I mutter, glancing around.
He’s leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, the very picture of smug male satisfaction.
"You won’t need them."
I scowl. "Where are they?"
"Somewhere."
"Damien." My tone is accusatory.
"Amelia." He mimics the way I said his name.
I glare. He grins. But there’s an edge to his amusement.
"Where are you going?"
"Work," I huff, running my fingers through my damp hair.
His smirk vanishes. "No."
"Yes."
"You don’t need to lift a damn finger."
I cross my arms. "I like working at the restaurant. I love Margaret."
I can almost hear him counting in his head; anything for patience.
He exhales sharply, as if he’s lost the fight. "Fine. For now."
"You don’t get to decide when I quit."
His gaze snaps to mine, absolutely lethal. "I can and I will."
Before I can argue some more, he’s moving. He stands behind me and begins dragging the bristles of a brush through my damp hair. My heart stumbles. No one has ever done this for me before.
"If you think for even a second that I’ll let you sleep in that damn storage room any longer, you’re dead wrong."
I close my eyes, biting my lip. He’s impossible. Overbearing. Unhinged. But God help me, he makes me feel wanted in a way I never have before.
"We'll see."
"There will be no other option. I won’t give you one."
I roll my eyes, ignoring the way my stomach flips at his words.
"I should leave."
"Wait." He rakes his hand through my hair one last time. "I’ll drive you."
"Since when do you chauffeur me?"
"It’s a perk that comes with you being mine."
I watch him get dressed, my gaze lingering far too long on the way his muscles shift beneath his inked skin. Heat pools low in my belly.
He notices. Of course, he does. His smirk is pure sin as he zips up his pants.
The drive is silent at first, but comfortable. Until he pulls into a flower shop.
"Are you getting in touch with your romantic side?"
He scoffs, shutting off the engine.
I follow him inside, observing as this big, scary man roams the shop. He picks up a bouquet of deep red roses, handing them to me.
I take them, trying not to swoon. He grabs another bouquet filled with soft pink lilies and white tulips.
"Who's that for?"
"Margaret."
I gape at him. "You like Margaret?"
He shrugs and hands the florist his card. "She took my girl in."
His girl.
"Margaret is going to think you have a crush on her," I tease.
"Anything to get me extra points with you."
This man is perfect, if you overlook the fact that he’s a stalker and a hitman.
Back in the car, I hug the bouquet closer to my chest.
"You're going to be the death of me," he murmurs, almost to himself.
I snort. What did I do? Appreciate his gift? Is that so bad?
The rest of the drive is silent. But when he parks in front of the restaurant, nerves have me ready to babble; anything to stall going inside.
But I’m involved with an absolute bulldozer of a man, and he just grabs my wrist and drags me in.
I’ve never been this nervous to see Margaret before, but now the dark shadow that used to haunt me walks beside me, no longer hidden. He’s here, in the light, for everyone to see.
Margaret stands behind the counter. Her brows lift when she sees Damien. Her gaze slides to me, curiosity blooming in her expression.
“Amelia,” she says, “and...?”
“Margaret, this is Damien,” I mumble.
Damien steps forward and offers her the bouquet. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you. Amelia speaks highly of you.”
“Well, aren’t you charming?” She takes the bouquet. “I didn’t know Amelia had a boyfriend.”
“She’s full of surprises.”
I try to change the subject. “I’m sorry I’m late.”
“It’s fine. Everything’s handled,” Margaret reassures me.
She leans in, whisper-yelling. “And, my dear, where have you been all night?”
Kill. Me. Now.
“Busy,” Damien says, not even bothering to hide that he was eavesdropping. “With me.”
Margaret giggles like a schoolgirl. “Oh, I like you. You make her blush.”
"I should get to work," I blurt out.
"Of course, sweetheart," Margaret says, still grinning. "But Damien, you're welcome here anytime."
In a split second, everything changes. I think it’s a reminder that people like us don’t get happily ever afters.
Glass explodes. Screams rise.
The scent of roses is drowned out by something metallic.
Gunfire.