Page 14 of Whispered Desire

It’s obvious she didn't check the peephole before answering, because when she finally turns my way, her eyes widen, her mouth dropping open in shock.

My comment about her lack of self-preservation pops to mind again, and my teeth will soon be dust at the rate she has me grinding them together in frustration.

The wise thing to do when you have a visitor is check the damn peephole because anyone could be on the other side of the door. I could have shot her dead in two seconds flat the moment the door opened. I could have barged inside her apartment with one forceful shove.

“M… Mathias?”

A sense of satisfaction dissipates some of the annoyance roiling through me. She remembers my name. It’s evidence of the only logical thing she’s done so far—research who gifted her a mountain of cash.

“Let's take a walk.” I skip the niceties. A habit to get straight to the point rather than wasting time by bullshitting about nothing.

My hand automatically reaches for hers to tug her downstairs away from the barking dogs who are still making a racket.

The wound in her thigh doesn’t seem to pain her. No limping or wincing with each step.

“Your injuries don’t bother you?” I ask against my better judgment. The state of her health isn’t why I flew hundreds of miles; the mystery of her refusal to spend my money is. I’ve come to figure out the puzzle that is Allison Marie Fields, and that doesn’t include monitoring her healing progress.

“There’s some residual pain, but overall, it’s like it never happened. Except for the scars.”

My clasp tightens around her fingers. Scars are a consequence of life. I’ve certainly got my fair share after years of lessons and punishments from Conrad.

So why the fuck does the thought of Allison’s soft curves marred by scars make me want to find D’Amora’s men and slit their throats?

Because you've been raised with a steady thirst for revenge, I rationalize, determined to maintain my composure.

They’ll get what’s coming to them soon enough from Luca, and that should be enough to appease the hunger for their blood.

But they left marks on Allison.

My w—

I slam the door on that train of thought. She’s notmyanything. She’s just a puzzle.

Aware that nosy neighbors could eavesdrop on our conversation, I guide her between two trees for privacy. A thousand questions are on the tip of my tongue, but I go with the most relevant one first.

“Why do you live here?”

“Excuse me?” She pulls her hand away, and I wonder if my grip accidently hurt her since it's the same arm where she was shot. Did I tug too hard and irritate the muscle? Kick up thatresidual pain?

“Why do you live in this shithole when you could move somewhere better? Safer?”

“This is a safe area, and I live here because I signed a lease.” Allison crosses her arms over her chest, and automatically, my gaze falls to the generous swell of her breasts beneath the thin shirt. The way they easily shape to their new position lets me know she’s not wearing a bra, and I grit my teeth at the realization.

Why the fuck is she opening her door to strangers without being properly dressed?

“Why are you here?” She retreats another step. As if she has a chance of outrunning me if she tried. “How did you find me?”

“I put a million dollars in your bank account. You think it wasn’t easy to find your address, too?”

“Touché.” A flash of understanding tightens her features, then her eyebrows lift in worry. “Is this about the money? Please tell me it wasn't a mistake, or if it was, that you don’t need it paid back immediately. I have the majority of it, but I used some to pay my student loans. I emailed you about it in case it was a mistake. You said it waslegal and final.”

“It wasn't a mistake.” I stuff my hands in my coat pockets to avoid the temptation to shake sense into the woman.

She’s like a fluffy little bunny flinching at every noise in the forest, except for the ones that actually herald danger.Bullets from a drive-by. A stranger knocking on her door.None of that fazes her, but a substantial addition to her bank account with an official email of approval from the CEO of a billion dollar company?That’swhat gets her hackles up.

“The only mistake being made is your stubborn refusal to spend more of it. You could have bought a house and moved away from this place.”

“Why does it matter if I don’t spend your money?” Her eyes crinkle at the corners as her mind works to understand. Square lenses frame the clouded blue—a new pair of glasses, brown rims versus the jade she wore in Paris. Unbidden, my hand pats the inner pocket of my jacket over my right pec, reassuring myself of its contents.

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