“What does it mean?”
He sucked in a breath, immediately going on the defensive. “What does yours mean?”
I sat back on my heels. “I just told you, I can’t remember anything.”
“Well, the price of knowing my ink is telling me the story of yours. And since that seems like a price you can’t pay…”
“You’re that protective of your design?”
“Aren’t you?”
We seethed.
My chest rose and fell beneath the T-shirt. Arthur’s muscles stood out, while blood blazed around his wound.
Finally, I bowed my head, resuming my cleaning. “Fine.”
“You have an accent. Do you remember if you lived overseas?” he pried, dispelling the animosity between us. It was odd to think that only an hour ago we’d threatened to kill each other. Now he was mostly naked and permitting me to wash him. In some ways, even though he would deny it, he trusted me. And in a way I couldn’t deny or explain, I trusted him.
“No,” I murmured, cleaning the last of the dirt from his chest. Rinsing the cloth, I hovered over his face. “May I?”
He tensed, then slowly nodded.
With infinitesimal gentleness, I pressed the cloth against his cheek, cleaning away the mud and blood and hints of battle. Small scratches were visible, now the grime had been removed. His cheek was split slightly from a punch to his face, and a small tear in his ear would heal. Apart from the stab wound in his shoulder, he looked surprisingly untouched.
I bit my lip, concentrating as I wiped carefully below his eyes and up to his forehead. His long hair stained the tiles and towel below.
“I need to be able to call you something,” he murmured as I ran the cloth ever so delicately along his jaw.
I looked up, entrapped by his grassy gaze. “Give me something. Something you want me to call you.”
Buttercup.
I instantly dismissed the idea. That was treasured with my father. If I couldn’t remember him, it was the only thing I had. I didn’t want a man who seemed caring and normal one minute, then tyrannical and monstrous the next to own it.
I shook my head. “I don’t have a suggestion. You choose.”
He chuckled. “I’m not exactly imaginative.”
I looked away, dropping the dirty face cloth into the water and moving to grab another towel. Arthur suddenly moved, grabbing my waist and pulling me on top of him.
He winced as my body sprawled on his, chest to chest, hips to hips. I felt so delicate and unsubstantial lying over his bulk. His muscles were hard, his skin warming up beneath me.
I squirmed.
He only held me tighter. “You do realize that every move you make flashes me. Seeing glimpses of your body, of places that should be hidden, is driving me fucking insane.” He cupped the nape of my neck, bringing me closer. “You’re not wearing underwear beneath my T-shirt, I’m concussed and blood-deprived, but it doesn’t stop my thoughts from thinking things I shouldn’t.”
Wait, his T-shirt?
I stopped moving. “You’re blaming me for making you uncomfortable? You made me strip. Remember?”
He smiled coldly. “I didn’t say anything about being uncomfortable.” His face hardened. “Having you stand in front of me naked was one thing—having it teased while you care for me is entirely another.”
My lungs stuck together.
His arm lashed from my waist to my hips, pressing me firmly against him.
I gasped at the hardness of his erection, digging into my belly. “It seems as though my body is making up lost blood rather rapidly.”
I couldn’t speak.
“Was this your plan all along? Make me think you cared about me, so I would let you go? Out of what… decency?” He cupped my chin, his eyes boring into mine. “Because if that’s your plan, Forgetful Girl, then you don’t know me at all.” His voice dropped to a deadly whisper. “I don’t know the word ‘decent.’ Life beat that godforsaken word out of me, along with the knowledge of forgiveness, gentleness, and right and wrong.”
I shivered at the promise in his tone—it dripped with raw emotion… of truth.
Whatever happened in his past had scarred him as surely as my burns.
“I had no plan,” I whispered.
He thrust against me, bruising my clit with the rigidness of his cock. “You’ve won, though, haven’t you, Forgetful? I’m almost naked and in a makeshift bed of towels. Isn’t that what you wanted?”
My breath caught in my lungs. “My intention was never to sleep with you.”
“Bullshit.”
“Excuse me?”
“You want me. I saw it in your eyes the moment we met.”
Anger siphoned through my veins. “The moment we met, you pulled a blindfold off me in the middle of death and battle. Sex was far from my mind.”
He shook his head. “That’s not what I mean and you know it.”
Despite myself, the memory of his hands on my hips and the intensity between us as he stripped me at the compound came back.
Heat flooded my core.
Fear came thick and fast.
What if I’m married? Or already spoken for? Who would I betray if I allowed this… this angry, damaged stranger to twist my intentions?
I didn’t know if I was on protection or my sexual experience.
I know nothing.
Tears prickled again and for some inexplicable reason Kill let me go.
I scurried away, climbing to my feet. I couldn’t stop my eyes from locking onto the erection between his thighs.
He smirked but it was sad, hiding something I couldn’t understand. “You won’t ever hear me say this again, so listen closely.”
I paused.
He swallowed as if it physically pained him to voice the two words that should be second nature. “Thank you,” he snapped. “Thank you for not killing me and running. Thank you for stitching me up.” Taking a deep breath, he pushed upright and climbed unsteadily to his feet. He swayed, grabbing hold of the office chair as he lurched forward.
I moved to catch him. “You shouldn’t be standing. Not yet.”
He shook his head. “I’m not going to spend the night on the floor of my fucking office.”
“I brought you a blanket. I can make you comfortable.”
He shook his head, his forehead furrowed. “No chance.”
Grabbing me, he draped an arm round my shoulders, using me as a crutch. “Take me to bed, Forgetful Girl. I’m ready to pass out and put this day to fucking rest.”
Chapter Six
I’d been spoon-fed lies all my life. I’d become a master at smelling untruths. And the woman currently residing in my home—the woman who’d healed me—smelled terrifyingly toxic. A scent that made me want to run with one heartbeat and then fuck her with the next.
She made me face things I was no longer strong enough to face.
She made me look past her scam and crave.
—Kill
“No. Don’t!”
“ ‘No’ isn’t a word in my vocabulary, little one.”
“But you’re supposed to be—”
“I’m not supposed to be anything. Especially a fucking babysitter to a traitor.”
The smell of smoke crept over my senses like a drug—a horrible, debilitating drug that doused me in white-hot terror. Fear I’d never comprehended squeezed my heart until I couldn’t breathe. It clogged my lungs until I gasped for help.
Then the crackle and singe of burning furniture roared into being so loud—so scarily loud.
“Help!”
A cold cackle of laughter was the only help I received. “Burn, baby girl. Burn.”
I was wrenched awake by large hands tearing me from sleep, dumping me into a reality I’d rather not face. A reality that I had no tether to.
“Christ’s sake, woman.” Kill bowed over me, his green eyes diving into mine. “Stop screaming.”
Him.
Green eyes of my lover.
Green eyes of my murderer.
The past clawed at me, dragging me back into smoke and flames and pain.
I screamed. The floodgates of my tears and fears and strain of the past hours faltered, spewing forth everything in a loud wail.
I sobbed.
I cried.
I came utterly apart.
And I did it alone.
I was an oasis of grief as Arthur Killian stood livid beside my bed. Flickers of yesterday came back, fluttering around me like memory snowflakes.
Kidnapped.
The threat of being sold.
Stitching him up.
The relief of finally having a shower and sinking into a soft, warm bed.
“For God’s sake, stop.” Kill shook his head. “Quit it, or I’ll have to fucking gag you.”
I stopped instantly. My tears dried up as if they never existed, and the raggedness of my breathing receded.
He sighed heavily. “Much better.” His beautiful green eyes were bloodshot and tired but his face had a healthy glow and his jaw-length hair was swept back off his face. His black T-shirt hid my handiwork, but he kept his right arm protectively shielded by his body.
I glanced behind him, taking in the room I’d slept in. The white walls, sheer drapes, and nondescript decorating could’ve been any hotel in any city around the world.
He locked me in here.
After a torturous climb up the stairs, he’d left me alone in this room, and turned the key. He’d let me care for him then locked me up like a prisoner.