Page 69 of Sweet Deception
Maybe she wants me to stop. Maybe everything about this dynamic has gone too far, and this is all one giant mistake.
“Why are you…” I strain to hear the whispered words, her voice soft as Napalm’s fur. “…being so kind to me?”
A strange lump forms in my throat. “Least I can do. I’m the reason you’re injured, aren’t I?”
I haven’t forgotten yesterday. The way her clever shampoo trap took me down. How I yanked on her leg to stop her from escaping. I never intended to hurt her, but clearly I did. I don’t know my own strength half the time.
Her stunning mini performance this morning only worsened things.
Surprise paints her beautiful face. “What?”
“Despite what you may think, making amends isn’t a completely foreign concept to me.”
Her hands cover mine. “Darren, you didn’t hurt me.”
I pull her ankle all the way into my lap, forcing her to shift toward me. “You don’t need to mask your pain on my behalf. Hurting people is what I do.”
I flinch. Why the fuck did I just say that?I need to quit talking so much.
Silence gathers around us as she digests my words. If the intensity of her stare burned before, it scalds my skin now. “Hey, it’s not your fault. I was messed up when you met me.” She shakes her head, squeezing my fingers before folding them in her lap. “My ankle’s been this way for over a decade.”
“What do you mean?” I lean closer to her and halt the massage so I can stroke my way up to her thighs. All that smooth skin wrapped around firm muscles pulses lust through my veins.
“I broke my ankle and dislocated my hip when I was seventeen. Continuing my dance training after that was out of the question.”
“That had to be devastating.”
“It was. My dream getting ripped away was awful but nowhere near as bad as losing my last living relative to a car accident at the age of thirteen. My grandmother.” The pain in her gray eyes pierces my chest, and suddenly, all I want to do is soothe her hurt away. Even if that means turning back time and murdering the asshole who stole the last of her family from her. “I was in the car with her.”
Using my thumb, I trace her soft, smooth eyebrow and the white mark above it. “Is the accident also how you got this scar?”
She nods, eyes downcast.
No wonder she freaked out yesterday when I stared. “Sounds like you’ve lost a lot.” I glide my knuckles across her cheek in an attempt to comfort her somehow. To convey that I’m here with her.
Since when do I go out of my way to console women? Especially one who, during our first meeting, fooled me into bringing her to my hotel room so she could steal from me?
She scoffs. “You have no idea.”
I pause. “Don’t I?”
Every rational impulse screams at me not to overshare with this woman because the story forming on my tongue is ugly. For the first time, I realize that I care about what she thinks of me. That terrible, absurd feeling defies logic.
“I was given my first demolition order for the family when I was sixteen.” A cement block weighs down my chest. “I had a natural talent for it, so it wasn’t long before other jobs came in. Around my third or fourth major assignment, I was showing off, trying to create a bigger and better blast every time.”
For this next part, I force myself to maintain eye contact.
“Then one of my bombs detonated too early.” The heavy ache of guilt still presses me down, even if I rarely admit it. “Before anyone was a safe enough distance away.”
On occasion, images and sounds of that day still wake me out of a dead sleep.
The carnage. The acrid stench of scorched flesh. The unspeakable sight of body parts, blown here and there. I’d killed innocents…
Nika’s eyes widen as they flick over me. She’s probably deciding what kind of monster I am. Good. That’s exactly what she should be doing.
She needs to know the truth. This is more than just swapping stories about our pasts. If we’re going to keep touching each other like this, building trust matters.
Fucking hell. When did my life turn into a soap opera?
