Page 141 of His Pretty Little Duet

In our room, I head straight for the bathroom where there is no noise, no indication of what I might find on the other side of the door.

As I push the door open, my pulse moves from a vibrating mass in my throat to a drum between my ears.

My breath hitches when I'm met with the most breathtaking blue eyes staring at me in the reflection of the mirror. Within the deep sky-coloured abyss, he can't hide the cracks in his pristine manner. Can't hide the crumbling of his control over his own emotions. Is that why he doesn't want me nearby?

I walk slowly towards him, the material of my little nude-coloured dress sliding over my thighs with each step. His gazedrinks me in with disapproval and anger and lust, and the caress of the soft cotton on my skin soon becomes a tangible promise screamed from the darkest depths of the mysterious man in front of me.

Clay's eyes stalk me as I slide up onto the counter, parting my legs to allow for his breadth and desperately trying to ignore the dangerous crack of energy between us. I part my lips to help breathe through his electrified aura.

Contrary to the staunch, hard wall of muscles in front of me, my hands shake as I find the buttons on his shirt and begin popping each one free.

Once open, I slide my hands over the solid rolling canvas of his abdominals and up over the thick hard plane of his chest. I continue over each shoulder, sliding the shirt from his arms and watching it disappear to the floor.

"You're so beautiful," I say to him, and he tries to hide his grimace, but I catch it like a butterfly. It was raw. I don't let it elude me. I saw it. I'm going to put it in my heart where I can protect it forever.

The slice on his cheek looks thick and swollen, the edges curving over a deep valley, the signs of the night's darkness strengthening the mark of pain and overwhelming emotion buried in his gaze.

I love you so much.

Let me in…

Beside me is a neatly folded towelette. I pick it up, soften it with warm water, and dab the nasty wound below his right eye.

And I've never seen anyone suddenly turn to stone before, but somehow even beneath the washcloth, I feel him harden to concrete. The emotions he was barely hiding are now gone completely, swallowed by darkness, replaced with cool, blue detachment.

My eyes fill with tears as I clean the wound. He only watches me. My heart starts to shudder with each burst of emotion, with each moment he doesn't respond. Will he always be like this?Guarded.

"Talk to me," I beg, my hand becoming clumsy as I try to clean the gash while the tears break free, clouding my vision. "Please, Sir, talk to me."

Disdain crosses his stern features when he catches my wrist, bringing it down to look at my fingers curled around the blood-soaked towelette. And something, a moment, a memory, flashes within his blue gaze.

He stares at my hand with a strange kind of melancholy that confuses me. I swallow as my nerves twitch, a sure warning to leave him alone while he's acting so chillingly unstable.

He pries my fingers open, removing the cotton from within my curled hand. It is as though he's buried so deep inside his own head right now, I'm afraid he'll struggle to find the surface soon.

"Clay?" I sob a little.

His eyes meet mine.

Then he shuts his, holding them like that for a long moment before,oh God, his forehead meets mine and he exhales hard. Riding down his breath is defeat—real and honest and painful.

I immediately cup the back of his neck to hold him to me, to accept the sentiment. Accept him. I cry for him—I know he won't—and he lets me do it while holding him close.

"A man gets used to being alone," he says, and I sniffle at the sound of his deep twisted timbre. "Then a little deer comes into his life, and she wants to open him up. She wants to let all that fucking evil out."

"I can handle your evil."

"No.You can't." He lifts his head, and I mourn his closeness instantly. "I won't allow such a thing." He leans in and kisses thetears on my cheek, dragging his mouth along the slant of mine, to my other cheek, where he breaks the streams of my sorrow with his lips. He licks a tear clean off my face. "Butchers don't cry," he lets slip, growling as his tongue comes out to lick the tears worshipfully.

And I'm not a Butcher.

Never will be.

That little statement stings, although he can't possibly know that. He adds, "I don't want you tohandleany evil for me, my sweet girl."

I start to melt, feeling the heat from his body intensify, the burn from his words gathering inside me. "Let me be what you need, Sir. I can be what you need."

"You are," he utters, his tone deep and dripping in anguish, but also a kind of volatile arousal. I shuffle closer. It's welcomed. All of him. His lips on my skin. His hot breath cascading down me, coating me.

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