Page 69 of Billionaire's Sins
"And I suppose you do?" I purse my lips together. What the hell is wrong with me? Why am I baiting him? Why does he rub me the wrong way, and after he’d saved me from a bad fall? I could have hurt myself… Not that I could be hurt any worse, after how Edward had turned and left.
Edward. I swing around and stare at the now deserted road. The houses on either side of the quiet London street mock me. The fog that envelops the street clears, and for a second, I think I see him in the distance. I take a step forward, trip over the same crack in the pavement. Damn it! I stumble once more and when thick fingers wrap themselves around my wrist, I try to shake them off. "Let go of me," I huff.
"Why should I when, clearly, you can’t put one foot in front of the other without hurting yourself?"
"You’re hurting me now." I glance down at where his massive palm is curled around my hand. Warm tanned skin, scarred knuckles that lead up to a veined forearm, peppered with hair. The sheer masculinity of this man is overwhelming. I glance up again into those blue eyes. The scowl that laces his features, the grooves etched into his forehead hinting at his permanent dark mood.
He releases me, and I turn back toward the image I’d seen, but the road is empty. The early morning sun’s rays slant down, and the fog seems to disperse in front of my eyes.
"He’s gone," I mumble. "I couldn’t stop him." A tear squeezes out from the corner of my eye and I slap it away angrily.
"No one’s worth crying over."
"Oh?" I swallow down the ball of emotion that clogs my throat, then pivot and brush past him. "And how would you know that?"
"Because I spent a lot of my early years crying over something that could never be righted."
"You?" I pause, then stare at him across my shoulder. I tilt my head up, all the way up, to take in his massive height. He’s as tall as Edward… No, taller. And his shoulders are broader. His massive chest hints at hours spent in some kind of physical work. Maybe he trains a lot? Or he’s in some kind of profession that demands he stay in top condition? What do I care anyway? Edward is gone. He hadn’t left behind even a note. He’d shagged me—okay, so I’d asked him to shag me, fine, not denying that—and then he’d left.
He’d crept away while I was asleep, after promising we’d be together, and now I am never going to see him again. My stomach twists, my guts churn, and the bile rolls up my throat. Goddam it. I spring to the side, fall to my knees, and am violently sick. I retch so hard, tears run from my eyes again, my hair falls over my face, and then he’s there. He piles my hair on top of my head, holds my forehead while I empty my guts out. Somebody, kill me. This has to be the worst day of my life. Getting sick, and because that’s not bad enough, in front of a stranger.
When I am done, he offers me his handkerchief. I glance up at him, and he jerks his chin, "Take it."
When I don’t reach for it, he pats my mouth with the fabric. I snatch it from him, turn my face away and dab at my lips. I rise up, and he’s with me. I turn and am about to hand the cloth back to him, then grimace and stuff it in the back pocket of my jeans. "I’ll wash it and give it back to you."
I turn away, take a step forward and my legs seem to turn to jelly. Fuck me, what the hell is wrong with me? The ground comes up to meet me again, and this time, I am not surprised when he scoops me up.
"Put me down," I mumble.
He doesn’t reply. Instead, he begins to walk back the way I’d come. "Which house?" he asks, his tone brusque.
"That one." I point toward the first house on our right.
He walks toward it, up the garden path, then takes the stairs two at a time, as if he isn’t carrying me. Not that I weigh much, but hey, he could, at least, be out of breath or something. But there’s not a hitch or any change in his breathing pattern to indicate that he is carrying the weight of another person. He stops at my front door.
I reach into my front pocket, pull out my keys. He shifts my weight, takes the key from me, unlocks the door, then walks through, before crossing the floor to the settee where he deposits me. He straightens then points a finger at me. "Stay there."
"Not that I was going anywhere, but seriously, what the hell is your problem?" I huff. "And I didn’t give you permission to come into my house." I frown.
He arches an eyebrow, trains those piercing blue eyes on me, and I subside.
He places the keys on the coffee table then pivots and walks toward my kitchen as if he owns the place. Shit, the way his massive frame takes up space, he does, actually. His physical presence seems to absorb all of the oxygen in the space and my lungs burn.
Or maybe that’s because of the growing realization that I’ve lost him. I’ve lost Edward. Had I ever had him? And he never told me that he isn't returning, but the sick sensation at the bottom of my stomach insists that he won't be anytime soon. My palms sweat and my chest hurts. I sit up and the world swims around me again.
"I told you to stay put," he chides as he appears from the direction of the kitchen. He squats down in front of me, handing me a glass of water.
I take it and drink from it, upturn the glass, but he grips my wrist. "Not too much or it’ll make you sick again."
I lower it, glance through my eyelashes at him. He takes the glass from me, places it on the table.
"How are you feeling now?" He searches my face.
"Better," I mutter. "I need to brush my teeth."
He peruses my features then nods, rises to his feet, and scoops me up with him.
"I can walk," I protest.
