Page 64 of A Touch of Dark
“Come here.” The command lacing his voice alone should give me the cue I need to leave.
He doesn’t own me. He certainly can’t order me to do his bidding. But perhaps that’s the infuriating part? He isn’t. No matter how many seconds tick past, he doesn’t come after me. Doesn’t reach for me. I don’t even hear him breathing heavily to indicate anger. No, he merely proposed a dare.Come here and learn the answer for yourself.
I don’t give him the satisfaction of responding. Instead, I turn on my heel and cross to him.
He captures my forearms from either side. A gasp escapes my throat, but before I can even think to fight, he loosens his grip and one of his hands drifts up to my chest.
“Your heart is racing,” he explains, grazing a nail over the muscle in question. I feel it lurch, assaulted by his touch even through layers of skin and bone. “You’re uncomfortable. Red is a bold color. You feel unsure wearing it. Though I did accuse you of being dull. It’s only fitting that you would select the boldest hue in response.”
He sounds so damn smug, as if he has me pegged down to the last cell and strand of hair. When I raise my hand, he predictably seizes my wrist.
“I wasn’t going to slap you,” I admit.
After a deliberate second, he lets me go and I bring my hand inches from his face, hating how my fingers shake. With effort, I calm them enough to trace the line of his jaw, shivering at how he clenches it against me. So damn suspicious.
“You think you know me, but I’ve already got you sussed,” I tell him, fighting to keep my voice steady.
Touching him at all was a mistake. His heat isn’t repulsive even in the humid greenhouse. His skin feels as soft as his hands, and the closer my fingers drift toward his mouth, the more I’m reminded of how his lips felt against mine. Swallowing hard, I step back and flatten both of my hands against my hips.
“You think I’m so predictable,” I say, “but you’re worse. You’re infallible. So desperate for control you can’t have one little thing go wrong. Can you?”
Alarm drips down my spine even before I follow through on my foolish impulse. I reach for an orchid and use both hands to snap a bud free. The violent crunch echoes like a gunshot and Damien looks…
Consuming.
He advances on me swiftly, capturing my chin in his grip. His nostrils flare with the aroma of his ruined flower. His shoulder tenses. I know he’ll hit me. I’m ready for it. Maybe I want him to.
Violence would give me a reason to hate him more. Something to counter the image of the man who held me while I broke. The same man shamelessly haunting me, claiming to know me better than I do. I’d take any reason.
All he does is cruelly drag his thumb up to my mouth and apply enough pressure to force my lips apart. He steps in closer at the same time, allowing his breath to fan my throat in a teasing swipe.
Anger has a smell on him too, but I wouldn’t dare attach it to a color. Maybe a phenomenon:lightning. Striking without warning and inflicting untold damage. Breathing is an ordeal. Sweat slicks my skin, affecting his grip. It tightens, tilting my head back farther, in the prime position for his mouth to claim mine if he wanted. Bite. Consume.
Suddenly, he lets me go and I cling to a nearby planter for balance, still holding my severed orchid.
“Put it on the table,por favor,” he snaps to a man who I didn’t even notice has entered the structure.
Wearing a suit and tie, he blends in with the other nameless men who I assumed work for Damien—minus the object he’s carrying. I do a double take and wind up tightening my grip on the planter. The rich smell flooding my nostrils proves that the sight isn’t a figment of my imagination: a large box of pizza fresh from Georgianos.
“Shall we?” Damien inclines his head. “I believe we’ve wasted enough time.”
We have. Back to the task at hand, the only reason why I came here in the first place: for answers.
“Fine.” I follow him down the aisle and into a small section cordoned off from the main greenhouse by a wall of glass.
The man with the pizza sets it onto a small table flanked by two strategically placed chairs.
“Dismissed,” Damien says to him, and the man leaves without a word. Then my host tilts his head toward me. “Sit.”
I eye the table warily. Pizza with a madman. Oddly enough, I’ve had worse dining companions. The governor’s disgusting son who spit food while he ate. The lecherous old senator Daddy tried to woo for support.
Damien Villa isn’t the least appealing, admittedly. So, I take the chair nearest to me while he claims the opposite one. Once seated, he gestures toward the box of pizza.
“As you requested.”
He’s not gloating for once. Something tells me that pizza wouldn’t be on the menu if he had his way. Good. I drag the box toward me and flip the lid open. It smells even better than I remember, cooked exactly to my preference.
“How do I know it’s not poisoned?” If so, it’s too late; my fingers have already staked claim over a slice.
