Forty-Three
Amelia
As usual, he’s gone when I wake up.
I’m not surprised, but I am a little disappointed. At first. Then in the cold light of dawn, I remind myself I haven’t forgiven this man.
As an excuse, it sounds more and more hollow with each passing day.
I have to remind myself what he’s done, and even then the anger takes a while to return, like it’s dormant.
It’s the abandonment that always hurt the most, but that’s been replaced of late.
The gun, the dinner, the swim. That charismatic wink.
Those dimples. The mind-blowing, body-melting orgasms.
Damn it, Amelia. Your mind rules you, not your pussy.
But what of my heart? Doesn’t that get a say?
Great, I’m arguing with myself.
Wait… heart? Do I love him?
I pause, reflecting on that confusing thought. But after a moment, I shake my head. I don’t love him. How can I? But… is it wrong to like him? Maybe a little?
Since he apologized, he feels more deferential, cautious around me, and quick to accommodate anything I say. I can’t push him anymore; he doesn’t resist, he caves. I don’t like that at all, but I don’t know how to explain it was our dynamic.
You know when you used to cuff me to the bed and not give me a choice about how many orgasms I had? Hot.
Yeah… I just can’t find the words, and it seems a complete reversal of all the things I’ve made him promise. After all, freedom isn’t being cuffed to my headboard.
Or is it? There’s something wonderfully uncluttered about it. Maybe, ironically, I’ve been most free when he pins me down. Free to feel, to experience pleasure like I’ve never experienced before.
And in my insistence for freedom, I’ve lost that too.
But I don’t know how to tell him, and it’s my problem, not his.
He’s not in his office when I walk past, nor in the kitchen, where I snag some fruit for breakfast.
It turns out he’s in the sunroom, sitting in my favorite chair, waiting for me.
Reading my book.
“This isn’t from the library, is it?” he asks without looking up.
I cross my arms, glaring at him, but it’s wasted. “No. I ordered some.”
He begins reading aloud. “‘I know he’s chasing me, but I can’t look back. It’s too dark, and I need all my wits to—”
“Stop,” I say, my cheeks flaming.
“‘—the branches whip at my naked body, leaving marks that he’ll only add to when he catches me—’”
“Enough. Please.” I’m about ready for the ground to open and swallow me.
“It’s quite good,” he says dryly.
“It’s also mine, so be a good boy, put it back, and fuck off.”
He closes the book with a snap and slides it down the side of the chair, then he’s on his feet with his usual grace, prowling toward me.
That may have been a mistake. He’s not a good boy at all.
I’ve taken a pace back before I’ve even thought about it. “What I meant was… uh…”
He keeps coming, stopping so close I have to look up to meet his gaze. “Morning,” he murmurs. “Sleep well?”
Okay, so not what I expected him to say.
And it brings back memories of him holding me in the night. The feel of his body pressed to my back. His hand cupping my breast. It’s been a long, long time since we’ve slept like that, and I slept as well as I have in ages. That’s disturbing.
He doesn’t need to know.
“Just fine.”
His lips twitch. “Me too, thank you for asking. I like the way you smell.”
He… what? Likes the way I smell?
The word makes me aware of his cologne, sandalwood and bergamot, the hint of his maleness beneath. It’s an effort not to inhale. Maybe I like the way he smells, too.
I’m still trying to come up with a reply, when he walks past, leaving me standing there, staring after him.
Bastard.
We don’t have a date scheduled that day, and I find myself wishing we had. The time alone has been important, but I’ve done all the processing I need to do. I’m ready to get on with my life, and not simply sit in sunrooms reading for the rest of the year.
He’s giving me space deliberately, it’s clear to me now. He wants me to yearn for him the same way I know full well he yearns for me.
That hasn’t happened yet, but I do miss his presence when he’s not around.
For once, I go looking for him. His office is empty, and I can’t hear him in the house. Instead, I find a note on the kitchen island.
I’ve gone into the city this afternoon. Bastien is over. Didn’t want to disturb you. Mozzarella salad in the fridge. Back late, so don’t feel a need to wait up. Date tomorrow? LVW.
Great, abandonment again.
I stomp upstairs to my room, indulging in a little good-for-the-soul petulance. I wouldn’t have minded being disturbed. What if something happens to him, and the last thing between us was a note on a countertop?
Him and his damn civility, not even saying goodbye. We’re having words in the morning.
Irritated, I go to bed.
A hand smothers my mouth, waking me. My body tenses, my heartrate jumping from calm to hammering in an instant.
It’s dark, but there’s light enough to recognize Van Wyk—who else?—and he’s almost naked, save for a pair of boxers.
Arousal uncurls within me, my whole body awake in an instant. Part of me isn’t sure I’m ready for this; the rest of me doesn’t care.
But my wrists aren’t cuffed. He’s not pinning me down; just the hand over my mouth.
“Quiet,” he breathes, right next to my ear, and his tone is deadly serious.
Fuck. What’s going on?
I nod to show I understand, my mouth suddenly dry, my palms sweating where I grip the sheets.
He lifts his hand away slowly, checks I’m not about to scream, then presses his finger to his lips for added reinforcement.
I nod again, listening hard. The house is silent.
He’s spooked. My monster is solemn. What could be the cause?
Then I hear it: a creak on a floorboard outside. I twitch, looking to my door in reflex.
There’s an intruder in our house.
His hand covers my mouth again, moving so fast I can’t avoid it. I glare at him to show I’m not stupid, and he removes it once more.
He shows me a flat palm, begging me not to move with hand and eyes both. I nod again, trusting him. My life is in his hands, and I can’t think of anyone else I’d give it to. I don’t know what’s out there, but I know the fear for me in his eyes.
If he puts himself between me and the threat, will he survive?
And I realize, with a shock, that if he dies, I don’t want to live. I need him.
Tears sting my eyes, and I stare at him, willing him to read my thoughts.
Don’t die. Don’t die. Please, God, don’t die.
He moves to the wall beside the door, every step so silent. He blends into the shadows, but the light catches the blade in his hand, curved and gleaming dully.
The seconds pass, each one feeling like an eternity.
How can he stand there, so calm, so collected?
I’m struggling to keep my breathing quiet, and I don’t know if I’m successful because my blood is hammering in my ears.
I can’t hear anything anymore. Cold spreads through my chest like creeping dread.
He only has his knife. My gun is in the nightstand. I want to tell him, but how can I when I must be quiet?
Fuck, I hope he knows what he’s doing.
My door is ajar. It wasn’t when I went to bed, but it is now. He didn’t close it behind him. I watch with wide eyes as someone pushes it open, quiet and slow, and it swings open, obscuring my view.
I freeze, my fingers spreading flat over my stomach, gripping my own flesh. The hairs on my skin stand on end, one by one, in a slow wave. Death is only feet away, drawing closer, and I can’t move.
Nothing happens. Van Wyk waits. And waits. How can his nerves bear it? How has the man not seen him?
The intruder takes a silent step into my room, boot placed carefully on the floor. The silenced barrel of an automatic weapon appears around the edge of the door, then a body dressed in black. He’s here to kill me—to kill us—and the thought is paralyzing.
But I have a monster. He’s my dark knight and my white knight both, and God but I need him right now.
A flash of movement marks Van Wyk’s strike. I barely catch sight of his blade as it arcs through the air, terminating in the man’s skull with a wet squelch. The body sags immediately, but Van Wyk catches him, lowering him quietly.
Not just the one intruder, then. How many are there?
Van Wyk has just killed a man in my room, and all I can feel is relief sagging through me.
I’m trembling, but I still sit up, reaching for my nightstand and the gun case within.
I flick it open while he pulls his blade free of the man’s eye socket.
It comes out with a repulsive sucking sound, the metallic tang of blood filling the room.
Bile rises in my throat and I have to swallow hard, the acid burning.
He wipes his knife on the man’s shirt, then picks up his weapon, checking it with quick efficiency.
Then he looks at me. A finger to his lips in reminder, and he beckons.
Shit. We’re going out there?
I shake my head. I don’t want to. Can’t we stay here?
Van Wyk gives me the same look he gives me when I’m pushing, but I’m not pushing, I’m terrified. His hand beckons again, fingers curling slow and deliberate.
Fuck.
I pull my gun out of the case, the weight reassuring in my hand, then push back the duvet, sliding to the edge of the bed, trying to keep every movement quiet. My robe is draped over the foot of the bed, and I pull it on.
Van Wyk’s eyebrows rise in interest, the light from the window showing his smile. He’s enjoying the view? Now?
Twisted bastard.
I flash him once, then tie my robe tight. So we’re both twisted, but I’ve known that a while. Gripping my gun with both hands, I pad silently to his side.
He leans close until his lips are beside my ear, his breath caressing my skin. “Garage. Stay behind me.” He pauses, then adds, “Hot look for you, Little Stray.” Then he’s off, padding silently down the hallway.
Great. Fleeing for our lives from God-knows how many armed intruders, and he’s choosing now to make playful comments?