Chapter 19
Nineteen
Daphne
“No, I don’t want no scrub …” I sang off-key, bobbing my head as I typed in rhythm.
Like every responsible procrastinator, I had five hours left to finish my research paper.
It was two in the morning, and Blair still wasn’t back, which meant she was probably sleeping at Enzo’s. I always left the door unlocked for her until I went to bed, just in case.
My typing stopped mid-sentence when the door swung open.
Cedric walked in with Brooks slumped over his shoulder, looking completely unbothered about carrying a half-dead president’s son.
He peeled Brooks’s arm off him. “He’s all yours.”
Brooks looked like he’d just survived a war. He collapsed onto the floor like a drunk getting dumped outside a bar after a fight.
He looked bad. Really bad.
His face and hands were a bloody mess. Split knuckles. Busted lip. Dark purple bruises already on his skin.
One eye was swollen shut. The other wasn’t far behind.
My pulse stumbled. “What the—”
Cedric slammed the door and left before I could finish.
I hopped off the bed and hurried over to Brooks. He was curled halfway into the fetal position.
“Up.” I nudged him with my shoe. “You’re going to get blood all over my rug!”
He squinted up at me through his one somewhat-good eye. “That’s your main concern?” he rasped.
“Yes. My rug has never thrown me off a yacht. You have. It has priority over you.”
He swiped two fingers over his cheek, then held them up. “See? All dried blood.”
I crouched for a better look. His black clothes were soaked in blood too. It’d just been harder to see from across the room.
“Still …” I waved toward him. “Your blood is literally everywhere.”
He groaned as he pushed himself upright, one arm wrapped around his ribs. “Do me a favor and help me out of the bloody clothes then.”
“Ugh.” I grabbed his elbow and hauled him up with an exaggerated groan. “You’re so ruining my night right now.”
He wobbled as he steadied himself, and I dragged him toward the bathroom. His boots left bloody smears across the tiled floor. I sat him on the closed toilet seat.
Once I was sure he wouldn’t tip over, I grabbed a washcloth.
“Who did the world a favor and beat the shit out of you?” I grabbed the bottom of his hoodie and peeled it over his head. “I need to buy them lunch tomorrow.”
“Not now, Daph,” he grunted, pressing his tongue carefully against his split lip before hissing.
I almost mentioned how lucky he was that I was helping him after his two homicide attempts on me in Calira.
But he’d called me Daph.
Not his princess taunt.
Not one of his usual insults.
Daph.
Damn him.
Neither of us spoke as I pulled off his shirt. My stomach turned at the bruises already purpling. They were everywhere. One stretched under his ribs like someone had taken a baseball bat to him. Another disappeared around his side. I was surprised he could move at all.
His breathing turned ragged as I knelt, tugged off his boots, and tossed them aside. I was wearing only pajama shorts, and the cold tiles stung my bare knees.
He dropped his head forward. “My head. My body. Everything fucking hurts.”
“What’d you do?” I pulled off his socks.
He stared at the ceiling instead of answering.
“I’m over here, cleaning you up. The least you can do is tell me why.”
“I finally got to beat the shit out of Cory.” His answer caught me off guard.
“Who won?”
“Me.”
I made a show of eyeing the bruises on his body. “Sure doesn’t look like it.”
“You should see him.”
“Men …” I said with a tsk. “Can’t you guys just spread rumors about someone you hate like normal people?”
He snorted. “Is that how you fight your battles?”
“Absolutely. Every girl on this floor believes you have a small dick.”
He shrugged. “I’ve had worse said about me.”
“They also think you were afraid of the dark until age ten and cry every time you come.”
“Again, not the worst.”
I shifted on my knees and grabbed his thigh to pull myself up. “What’s the worst then?”
“The worst rumor?”
I nodded while turning on the faucet and soaking the washcloth.
His voice turned almost hushed. “The one where people think I hate you.”
I forgot about the washcloth until water started spilling over my fingers.
“You do hate my guts,” I said.
“Do you think I’d choose you as my Fawn if that were true?”
I shut off the faucet with my elbow and wrung out the washcloth. “I think you chose me as your Fawn because Cory wanted me.” I unfolded the cloth. “And for some reason, you think you have some ownership over me.”
He winced when I dragged the washcloth over the cut running along the bottom of his cheek toward his chin. It looked deep enough to leave a scar. “You really think that’s why I chose you?”
“That, among other reasons.”
“And the others?”
I dabbed blood from the corner of his mouth. “To get revenge …” My hand slowed. “On me.”
He didn’t answer. His chest rose as I tilted his face toward the light. Blood still crusted near his ear, so I wiped that away too.
“You don’t have to deny it,” I said quietly. “I’d probably do the same if I were in your situation.”
“It’s not—” He flinched when I pressed the washcloth to his split lip.
“Don’t lie to me,” I warned. “Or I’ll start another rumor about you.”
He thankfully dropped the subject.
Once his face was as clean as I could get, I leaned over, slid open the shower door, and turned on the water. The rest of him was covered in blood. A washcloth wasn’t going to cut it.
“You’d better be easy on me this week for letting you bleed all over my bathroom.” I tested the water, then wagged a damp finger at him. “And you stay in your boxers. Got it?”
He braced a hand on the vanity and struggled to his feet. I made no move to help him. He only got so much nice Daphne in one night.
Once he was upright, he hooked his thumbs under the waistband of his cargo pants. “Help me out here, will you?”
I crossed my arms. “No freaking way.”
He worked the button loose, then reached for the zipper. “I’ll eat your pussy.”
I gawked at him. The beating had clearly knocked the last functioning brain cell straight out of his skull.
“I can’t promise it’ll be grade-A pussy eating in my current condition,” he said. “But trust me, I’ll still make you come.”
My mouth went dry, like every drop of moisture in my body sank straight between my legs.
I motioned toward him. “You were literally just beaten half to death. Your lips are the size of my fist.”
“Doesn’t mean my tongue stopped working.” He shoved his cargo pants and boxer briefs down in one motion, his half-hard cock bobbing free.
I palmed his forehead, sending him stumbling back a step. “Just get in the shower.”
“Let’s hope you never go into nursing,” he muttered.
He stepped into the shower. Deciding my job was done, I turned to leave.
Big mistake.
He grabbed my wrist and jerked me straight into the shower with him before I could pull away.
The man didn’t have the strength to clean the blood off himself but had plenty to drag me into a shower.
Warm water rained over us, soaking my pajamas. My thin tank clung to my skin as he blocked the only way out. He angled himself so most of the water fell on me instead of him.
When he reached behind me for the shampoo, his cock brushed my thigh.
Heat rushed between my legs.
Bruises covered his chest, but they did nothing to hide the hard muscle underneath. Or stop my stupid heart from racing.
“Wash my hair.” He held out the shampoo.
“Fine,” I said in pretend annoyance.
I wasn’t annoyed. I was, dare I say, comfortable.
I squeezed shampoo into my palm. “I can’t believe I’m doing this after you literally threw me off a yacht.”
He stayed quiet while I worked the shampoo through his thick hair. I massaged his scalp, telling myself it was only to loosen the dried blood.
Little by little, the tension left him until he was practically leaning into me.
“Not even going to apologize for that?” I asked, guiding him under the spray to rinse his hair.
He covered my hand with his, moving it slowly through his hair. “I don’t apologize for teaching lessons. I should actually start charging for them.”
I combed my fingers through his damp strands before tugging harshly on one.
He laughed under his breath.
“You really are a lunatic—you know that?” I started to pull away when he caught my waist.
“That’s your type, Princess.”
“Nope. Sane is my type.”
“Nah, sane has never been your type.” He traced a drop of water down my shoulder with his fingertips.
His touch was gentle, such a contradiction to the man who’d beaten Cory only hours ago.
“You and I grew up in the same world.” He brushed his swollen lips over mine. “You like the messy shit. The chaos. The highs and lows. The games.”
He kept his mouth close enough that every word warmed my lips. “That’s why I can’t convince myself you don’t belong in my world anymore. Everyone keeps telling me you’re out of it. But I refuse to accept it.”
For a second, the only sound between us was the running water. It felt like we were having a conversation we’d never allow ourselves to have anywhere else.
Like somehow, standing half-naked under running water made it easier to tell the truth.
“I’m not First Lady material,” I whispered. “Your words, remember?”
He shut his eyes, and for a second, the familiar arrogance settled back over him like armor. “Before the assassination, you were exactly that.”
When he opened them again, the armor was gone. “Now, this is the only way I get to have you. In secret. By force.”
My hands trembled. I blamed it on exhaustion. His injuries. Anything but him.
Definitely not because every time he dropped his guard like this, he fucked with my head.
“And what happens when I stop being your Fawn?”
“Then we go our separate ways,” he said as water dripped from his lashes.
I’d known that answer was coming.
It still fucking hurt.
“Good,” I lied. “That’s how I want it.”
I looked away, squeezing body wash into my palm, realizing that somewhere between washing his hair and arguing with him, I’d forgotten the washcloth.