Chapter 21
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Precious, wicked angel.
Damion
It should not turn me on to learn that Mirabelle is, actually, evil, yet…
I drag my gaze to the woman who showed up outside my bedroom door hours ago looking like a seductive temptress, teased me within a centimeter of my brain, and then fell asleep on my bed like she wasn’t in a desperate man’s arms.
I should really be recording this as a massive negative point against her, for the sake of my breaking sanity.
Unfortunately, I have instead written the time, the date…and a swear word in my Mirabelle journal.
The woman makes a soft noise, stretches, and rolls over, finding her stuffed pig. I stare as she cuddles the little thing and curls up in a ball.
Cute adds itself to my incredibly thorough records.
Then another swear. Then adorable.
Innocent as a succubus, she would have let me do anything to her. Yet now, she’s asleep on my bed with a stuffed pig.
Do I have regrets?
…
No.
No, I don’t.
Well…
I shake my head, fix my gaze on my journal, and run my fingers through my hair as I tap my pen against the lines. “No,” I whisper, “you don’t.”
I might. But they’re not real regrets so much as they are desperate pouting desires going unhomed.
I did not know she was capable of this event; therefore, I don’t know her well enough to make lifelong decisions yet.
I write, This is torture.
I swallow.
I might like torture.
Letting my head fall into my hand, I free a tight breath. I think I need an emotional-support pig.
Where am I going to sleep tonight? How am I going to sleep tonight?
I haven’t even properly kissed this woman, but I am utterly undone for her. It’s not going to get better or easier from here on out. Is she planning to come onto me like this again? I’m not strong enough. Maybe I should sleep on my weight bench…
Do I need to have a talk with her about boundaries? Do I really want to impose boundaries that keep her from looking at me like she wants me?
Rustling my hair, I grimace and sag, and find myself drawn yet again to staring at her.
My bed is going to smell like her. Like honey and peonies. Like the taste of her skin.
What in the world came over her?
I spend another hour or so reviewing my records from the past week and a half.
Lots of hitting. Then of course the past few days of avoiding me completely. All culminating in her telling me that I deeply hurt her when I left her like I did because she has absolutely no experience in romantic relationships, even though she has craved one her entire life.
And now.
This.
It doesn’t add up.
She wants emotional connection so bad it makes her cry and cut everything beautiful about her out in a pitiful effort to get some inkling of it… Yet, tonight, she was ready to settle for a physical connection.
With me.
A man she doesn’t care for.
If she weren’t so honest, I’d think she were in denial about liking me, but if there’s any denial going on, she wouldn’t verbalize lies every time she says how she’s not really a fan, which means that—cognitively—she still does not like me.
Per this afternoon, however, she is aware that she might come to like me.
Maybe that already happened, and she just didn’t tell me?
Maybe…she wanted me to prove what I said earlier about wanting her, not just her body?
Maybe she wanted to clarify just how deeply I’d be hurting her if I’m lying…
I can tell she doesn’t trust me. She’s guarded, when she lets her guard show. The world makes her wary. People make her cautious. When she’s not pretending to be sweet little Mirabelle, her eyes are hard. She’s been burned. Countless times. She’s been rejected. Constantly.
Every time she shows up somewhere as less than her and finds people who like that version, it no doubt feels like a confirmation that who she really is isn’t worthy.
She puts all her energy into trying to be a person worthy of love.
And now, here I am, someone she doesn’t trust, someone who’s kept secrets from her for years, asking her to be herself, showing her it’s literally painful for me because of how desirable she is.
She’s likely confused and desperate and scared…to…to the point of exhaustion.
Cussing, I locate her again, passed out in my bed.
I love her.
I love her.
Sweet, dedicated, sincere, careful, perfect Mirabelle.
I so dearly love her.
Freeing a breath, I rise, take gentle steps toward her, situate her correctly and carefully the right way in bed, and pull the blankets up around her. Slow, I touch a kiss to her cheek, then I circle to the other side, grab my deep blue throw off my reading chair, and lie down.
I so dearly love her.
I will consistently show her.
Which means learning her, taking everything she tells me to heart, and doing better any time I mess up.
Settling in, I close my eyes, blow out another breath, and face the sleeplessness.
Because my girl, my sweet beautiful girl, does not wake up alone.