Chapter 22
TROY
Sage falls against me as we step into the penthouse suite, her weight growing heavier with each step.
“Almost there.” I guide her toward the bedroom, but her knees buckle.
Fuck it. I scoop her up, one arm beneath her legs, the other around her back. She makes a small sound of protest, then her head drops against my shoulder.
“Troy, I can walk.”
“Clearly not.”
I carry her to the bed and set her down carefully. She immediately curls up. That’s when I notice it.
Blood.
There are dark spots on the back of her heels where the Louboutins have cut into her skin—raw, angry welts that look hours old.
My jaw locks. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
She doesn’t look at me. “Tell you what?”
“That the shoes were hurting you.” I kneel beside her on the bed, carefully removing first one heel, then the other. The damage is worse than I thought. The blisters have broken open and then bled continuously. It’s a wonder she wasn’t limping. “You walked around all night like this.”
She gives a forced smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “I didn’t want to... make a fuss after what happened.” Then she yawns.
After what happened with Fogg, I had to return to the party to finish my conversation with Dante Black.
I would have sent Sage to our room, because she was in no fit state to go anywhere, but I also didn’t want to let her out of my sight again.
She came with me, but didn’t talk much, just kept smiling politely and sipping champagne until we could leave.
And now I feel like a right bastard.
I exhale slowly through my nose. She didn’t make a fuss. I dragged her through that party like I owned her while she bled into those expensive shoes I made her wear. And for what, so I could show her off like a trophy.
I go to the bathroom and grab the first-aid kit from under the sink. When I return, she hasn’t moved.
Now I’m worried. But I say nothing and pour her three fingers of whiskey.
“Here. Drink this.”
She slowly sits up, eyes me, and takes the glass. “Do you always bark orders at people? We’re not dogs, you know.”
I give her a look, a soft one because the rage that took over before is all but gone. “No, you’re not. Dogs are loyal.”
“And they love unconditionally,” is all she says before she takes a swallow and then makes a face.
I sit on the edge of the bed. What the fuck does she mean by that? “Pass me your foot.”
She doesn’t move. “I’m ticklish.”
With a sigh, I grab her ankle, but she lets out a giggle and tries to kick me. Christ, how much has she had to drink?
“You didn’t complain when I put your shoes on earlier.”
“Fine.” But she smirks and shyly offers me her foot.
I lift it gently, cleaning away the blood with antiseptic wipes.
She doesn’t bat an eyelid when it must sting, but leans back on the pillows, watching me with those doe eyes of hers.
I work methodically, cleaning the wound, drying it with antiseptic spray, and applying a Band-Aid. First one foot, then the other.
That’s when I hear it, a soft, rhythmic sound.
Christ. She’s snoring.
I pause, Band-Aid half-applied to her heel. Her face is peaceful, lips slightly parted, all the fear from earlier completely gone. Good. She needs to sleep. Hopefully, she feels safe here. Who am I kidding? She doesn’t feel safe. She’s petrified of me.
In her hand, the whiskey glass is tilted like it might spill everywhere. Sighing, I reach for it and place it on a solid surface. At least she drank half of it, although maybe now she’s had too much.
I don’t do this. I don’t look after people, especially women. How do I know if she’s had too much? What if I’ve unsuspectingly given her alcohol poisoning?
My pulse speeds up as I search on my phone for what alcohol poisoning looks like, and I count her breaths to make sure.
No, she’s fine. Thank fuck.
When I finish tending to her cuts and blisters, I carefully ease the duvet out from under her. She needs to be properly in bed, not just collapsed on top of the covers. I slide one arm beneath her shoulders, trying to shift her weight—
Her head rolls onto my forearm.
I freeze.
She’s heavy when I go to slide her off, but she murmurs and grabs onto me, clinging in tighter.
Okay then.
If I move now, I’ll wake her. And she needs sleep more than I need my arm back. So I stop moving and lie there, half-propped against the headboard, my arm pinned beneath her head, and let my mind drift to that damn doctor.
Geoffrey Fogg.
He’s already dead. He just doesn’t know it yet.
I’ve already added him to my list. The way he touched her.
The way she looked at him with that instinctive fear a wounded animal gets when it knows it’s being stalked.
Whatever he did to her in that hospital, whatever role he played in making her that scared of him… .
I’m going to take him apart piece by piece. And then I’m going to make him eat it. For every lie he fed her, every injection, every manipulation, he’ll get a taste of his own viscera. Then I’ll deliver what’s left to Richard Lovett with a fucking bow on top.
But first…
I glance down at Sage, her face serene against my arm. First, I’m going to lie here and try not to do anything that might disturb her.
My arm is already going numb. But I don’t care.
Although I wish I had my laptop so that I could do some work while I’m here, the deal is rapidly going south without that article Ragg promised but never fucking wrote.
I glance around for my phone so that I can at least check my messages.
But I left it on the other side of the room. All I have to hand is the TV remote.
I reach for it and turn on the screen, flicking through the channels with the sound on low. But nothing interests me. One glance at my watch tells me it’s not even late.
She shifts slightly in her sleep, and a strand of dark hair falls across her face. Fuck, she’s beautiful like this, totally unguarded. No hostility in her eyes when she looks at me. I loathe seeing that look on her, the one that tells me she hates me with every fiber of her being.
Fear riles me, but hate….
It ruins me.
Without thinking, I reach out and brush the lock of hair back. Her skin is warm beneath my fingers and so soft. I let my thumb trace the curve of her cheekbone, barely touching, and instantly, my cock thickens, straining in my pants.
My gaze drops to her mouth.
I could kiss her right now. Taste her. Bury my face in her neck and breathe in the scent of her. That dress is so damn tight, I could run my hands over every tight curve. It’s so tempting to give in, to do what I want with her while she’s pliant in my arms.
The way she looks at me when she’s awake...Like I’m something to be locked up and the key thrown away, like at any moment I might turn into the monster her mother warned her about, has started eating away at me.
It’s easier like this when she can’t turn me away, when she can’t run.
And, she’d never know.
My hand stills against her hip, where it’s gone of its own accord. I’m straining in my pants. And my pulse pounds like I’m standing over a kill.
But.
What the fuck am I doing?
She passed out because she was in shock and terrified beyond reason. Because I dragged her to my office and interrogated her like one of my victims. She even tried to cut me with my own razor. And then she drank her own weight in Dom.
And here I am, trapped beneath her head, mauling her while she sleeps, wanting to do things to her I have no right to.
My thumb brushes the corner of her dress, she shifts, and it rides up.
Just once. I could—
No.
I curl my hand, making a fist, and pull away.
Another minute of this and I’ll do something I can’t take back, that will make her look at me with even more dread than she does now.
My mind goes back to Dr. Fogg and what he did to her. As my muscles tense, and red flits across my vision, the urge to fuck her or fuck someone up is heightened by the whiskey, so I down what’s left of her drink.
Then I lie back and tally the ceiling tiles. What else am I going to do?
Forcing myself to exhale, to calm the dark part of me rising, I count and wait until her breathing deepens, and she is well and truly in dreamland. Then, carefully, I slide my arm out from beneath her head and replace it with a pillow.
She lets out a small moan and burrows deeper into the duvet. But she doesn’t wake.
Slowly, I stand and stretch every muscle in my body, relieving a few aches from having stayed still so long.
Then, moving efficiently, I tidy her shoes and the first-aid kit away, wash the empty whiskey glass in the sink, and put a can of water on the bedside table, close to her in case she gets thirsty in the night. And prepare to leave.
She’s safe here. The penthouse is locked, and security knows not to let anyone up. And I have work to do. Dr. Geoffrey Fogg thinks he can walk into my hotel, put his hands on my fiancée, and walk out again.
He’s wrong.
I grab my coat from the chair, take out my phone, and text Mundel as I head for the door.
Find Dr. Geoffrey Fogg. Don’t let him leave the city.
The reply comes a few minutes later:
Tracked him. He’s at The Langham.
Perfect.
I take one last look at Sage, curled up in my bed, safe and sleeping.
Then I close the door behind me and go hunting.