Page 23 of Sinful Sacrifice

A little while later, the door opens, but it’s not Damien, only Emilio bringing me a slice of pizza and water.

I eat and fall asleep, waiting for the man I shouldn’t want.

The feel of someone scooping up my sleeping body in their arms and carrying me out of the office wakes me. I pull back but relax seconds later at Damien’s familiar scent. Burying my face in his shoulder, I allow him to take me outside. This time, I don’t fight him when he places me in his SUV, clicks on my seat belt, and drives off.

The seat is warm, and I yawn, fighting to fully wake up.

I barely know Damien, but something in my gut tells me I can trust him.

That doesn’t mean it’s a good idea, though.

The car ride is quiet, and I perk up in my seat when we reach a guarded gate. The window squeaks when Damien rolls it down. He offers a two-finger wave to the guard, and the gate opens.

I sit up straighter, craning my neck to get a good look. “Is this your house?”

He shakes his head. “Antonio’s.”

“Why aren’t we going to yours?”

“I don’t know if it’s safe for me to go home yet.”

I slowly nod and stop with the questions.

After parking, he assists me out of the SUV. Once on the front porch, he blocks me from seeing the passcode he enters on the front door. An alarm fires off when we enter the house, and he quickly turns it off with another code.

The low light follows us into the house as he guides me toward a separate wing. He blocks me from seeing the door’s passcode as he keys it in.

Well, well.

He sure didn’t have that same courtesy when it came to my building code.

The lock beeps, and we enter a bedroom that smells like fresh laundry.

Like I’m in a live-action Tide commercial.

Damien flips on a lamp that emits the level of brightness you’d get from a lava lamp. “Make yourself comfortable. I’ll be back.”

He drops his keys on the dresser and walks through a dark doorway. He shuts the door, and seconds later, a light shines through the cracks.

I don’t make myself comfortable. The king-sized bed’s comforter is insane-asylum white. No way am I getting in it with these outdoor clothes. Just as I’m about to raid the dresser for pajamas to borrow, I hear commotion behind the door.

“Fuck,” Damien hisses.

This time, I’m not above being nosy. I creep toward the door, to what I assume leads to a bathroom, and stop. Drawing in a deep breath, I slowly open it, surprised it’s unlocked.

Damien stills, staring at me, unblinking.

I gasp, my hand covering my mouth as I sweep my gaze down his body.

He’s bare-chested, his pants unfastened, his bloody shirt on the floor.

Speaking of blood.

Dried-up blood cakes his split, battered knuckles.

Bruises cover his chest, and there’s a slash on his forehead.

He didn’t give one sign of this earlier.

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