Page 57 of Hawthorne

“Of course,” he chuckles sarcastically. “That’ll leave you free to put up with Karl’s shit instead, right?”

I freeze.

“What?” I whisper.

“You heard me!”

“Do not tell me you’ve been cooped up in here, avoiding me and destroying your office over five minutes of small talk with a co-worker.”

“Small talk?” he scoffs. “It sure as hell seemed like more than just small talk!”

“Did you listen to the conversation? Were you right there to know what we were talking about? Or do you think I am lying to you?”

“He was too close to you.” He stalks back to me, his face red with anger all over again. “He could have made the small talk from a decent distance. And why did you crouch down right in front of him, huh?”

“Are you going to turn into the Hulk every time a man looks at me or talks to me, Duke of Hawthorne? Because that seems like a whole lot of possessiveness for someone who just wants sex!”

His head swivels back as if he was just slapped in the face, and for a moment there, it looks like I’ve hurt him. But it hurts me, too. This man has asked of me something I never gave anyone else.

Sex is intimacy and connection. I am giving him a part of myself, knowing there’s nothing more than that to us. He will soon find a suitable fiancé and forget all about me. He knows that, too, and yet, he’s still demanding more and more.

All he does is take. And take. And he’s not even worried about the consequences…

“You know I don’t share,” he grits.

“Don’t be daft, Vincent. Sharing? What am I, a piece of candy? I wouldn’t expect you to have me in high regard. I am not blue-blooded after all, but…thinking that low of me. That I’d just give it to every man that gives me five minutes of attention?” I tsk in the end, hurt by the underlying accusations in his words.

I know damn right he’s just being rash and impulsive, but it doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt.

Straightening my back and steeling my stance, bringing the wall between us back up, I add, “Good evening, Your Grace.”

He doesn’t put up a fight this time around. He doesn’t even answer, and I take it as my cue to just leave the office as fast as possible, rushing to my bedroom. My hand is now barely even bleeding, with the right red staining it turning dark from drying.

Treating the wound, feeding Primrose, and going to bed are my priority now. I need alone time.

Even if a part of me wants him to come after me and apologise, the other needs space. Time.

And I also know it’s only wishful thinking…The Duke of Hawthorne bows to no one but the king. Why would he come after an insignificant girl like myself?

If he thinks so low of me, why even convince me to accept this deal?

This deal is over. It was a bad decision.No. An awful decision.

Let’s hope things can go back to the way they were in the beginning: professional.

Primrose is already waiting for me to take her for the last walk of the day, eager to stretch her tiny legs and take a quick pee.

In the bathroom adjacent to my chambers, I tend to the cut on my hand, disinfecting it and putting a large band-aid over it.

Since I need a breather as well, I take her through the kitchen to the small orchard separating the service area from the main gardens and let her loose while I drown in my thoughts.

I was stupid and naïve to fall for the duke’s charm. To think we’d be capable of separating work with whatever these feelings—and this desire—are.

The last thing I want—or need—is to be worried about what’s going on between us and how I can fix–Woof! Woof!

Primrose stalks my way with a strong bark, the kind that usually warns me of a presence nearby.

Sure enough, there’s some rustling from inside behind the kitchen door, and just a few moments later, a familiar, tall, and bulky figure appears, standing by the porch.

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