Page 26 of A Touch of Dark
I’m still laughing. Louder. Harsher. Tears mix in, thickening my voice. My chest heaves, but in this moment, I can’t smother my cries behind my trembling fingers or in the sleeves of my coat.
I’m sobbing.
And Damien observes it all in his own callous way.
“Don’t move.”
I jump when he takes a step, but I’m not his target. Without the aid of his cane, he enters the hall, but I remain hunched on the floor, watching the unfamiliar room from behind the border of my knees.
Little decoration obscures its intended use. There isn’t even a television or a stereo system. Just black leather furniture and a cold air of business that lingers long after any other inhabitant has left.
One fact is obvious: I interrupted something. How rude of me—but how strange ofhimto let it happen. There were times when even Daddy would send me away while he had company. The mayor’s time was expensive after all, what with campaign contributions to schmooze and donors to win over. He’d visit me in the morning, of course, usually with some small token of affection and a reminder to smile!
He would certainly never lower a crystal flute of wine before my nose and urge me to drink.
“Small sips,” Damien warns. “This is a vintage Romanée-Conti. Some consider it…overwhelming.”
“Th-thank you.” My cheeks heat as I accept the glass. The wine swirling inside might as well be liquid gold; I recognize the brand, a bottle of which sells for around thirty thousand dollars—and that’s for a recent run. Ironically, I taste nothing as I drain the glass in one sip.
If he’s irritated by the disobedience, he hides it well as I set the glass aside.
“Why are you here?”
“I…” I breathe in deeply and exhale. “I don’t know.”
I should’ve called Daddy. Or gone home and waited for another morbid reminder from Simon. Instead, I crawled to the lair of an artist whose soft hands disguise more than they should.
I ran to a madman. He stands tall, shrouded by shadow and light, holding his own glass of wine, which he has yet to sip from. Instead, he sets the glass on the coffee table with no difficulty. He must have the layout memorized.
“You’re bleeding.” His nostrils flare, his frown more pronounced.
“Oh…” I clutch at my arm. “It’s a scratch. I-I fell.” The lie rings hollow as I finally look at my shoulder.
A long gash slices through the fabric of my designer coat, revealing my torn blouse underneath and a swath of red. The bastard had a knife, I assume as tears flood my eyes. Simon’s favorite toy. At least the wound doesn’t feel too deep.
“Here.”
I blink and find a white strip of fabric dangling from an outstretched hand. Woodenly, I press it against the worst of the bleeding.
“I’m fine,” I lie again. The wine has put everything back into perspective, and a new fear blossoms in the spaces of my psyche Simon doesn’t infect. It’s too close in here. Too quiet with just me and him. I brace my free hand against the floor and start to stand.
“Since you are here, we might as well discuss your previous proposal, Ms. Thorne,” Damien announces while I use the wall as an anchor to climb to my feet.
“My…what?”
“Painting you,” he says as though art is the most natural topic in the world to move on to after blood. “We can discuss my methods and decide whether or not you agree to my terms. How does dinner sound?”
“You’re serious?” My eyebrows rise, my voice still hoarse.
It would help if he laughed. Something to prove he was taunting me outright. Anything other than his cool, unreadable persona.
“Yes,” he says. “Dinner. Somewhere public.”
“Dinner.” I’m a parrot, echoing him in a detached monotone. “Now?”
“Of course.” Unperturbed, he nods. “Unless you’ve changed your mind.”
Pain in my fingertips makes me glance down. I’ve been subconsciously wringing them together, scraping my nails against sore, raw flesh. “I…I don’t… I’m a mess.”
