Page 49 of The Caress

I don’t recognize the person I turned into yesterday, but I don’t regret hitting the guy. I don’t regret sending him to the hospital after what he did to Ella.

TomyElla.

"He looks ten times worse," I say, trying to push those thoughts aside and focus on what really matters right now. Her. "I’m so sorry this happened. It’s one hundred percent my fault. I should have listened when you tried to get me to leave. We could still be in Malta right now if I’d ignored that son of a bitch."

"You can’t beat yourself up over that," she says, then flashes me another lopsided grin. "No pun intended. Seriously, though, you don’t have to keep apologizing. You’re not the one who hit me. You were trying to protect me from getting hurt."

"I’m still the reason you got hurt in the first place." I put an arm around her shoulders and pull her in closer. "So yes, I do need to keep apologizing. Iwillkeep apologizing until you get back to normal. then I’ll apologize a few more times for good measure."

"I appreciate the gesture, even if it isn’t necessary." She leans against my shoulder, her body melting against mine. "This is why I love—"

She stops herself mid-sentence, her whole body tensing up. Neither of us seems ready to fully say those words out loud, but it makes my heart do a slow roll in my chest to know that we both feel the same way about each other.

"You don’t have to finish that sentence," I whisper, planting a kiss on the top of her head as the tension leaves her body. "I think you know I have feelings for you, too."

She is stiff in my arms, but she slowly nods her head. That’s all the confirmation I need. She loves me. She loves me, even though I've acted like a jerk, like a caveman attempting and failing to protect her. That thought warms me inside, filling a space in my chest I thought had long since gone dead.

It's an odd feeling. I force my mind to think of something else, anything else, lest I obsess about the fact that she loves me. My head swivels around, and I focus on my surroundings.

It’s strange to be back at the castle after spending so much time away. I never thought I’d miss the gray skies or the quiet solitude, but there’s a comfort in being able to look out the window and not see another human for miles in any direction.

After having to deal with the paparazzi for weeks on end, I find it especially comforting to look out my window and see the Highlands.

Fuck, I still can’t believe I let them get to me like that. I let my guard down, and now Ella has paid the price. It’s unbelievable and inexcusable. I’ll never, ever let it happen again.

I walk over to check that she’s still resting comfortably in the sitting room, then walk down the corridor to the office I’ve set up here in the castle. It’s the one high-tech area of the centuries-old estate, but today I’m seriously regretting the wall of television screens plastered with my angry face and the multiple phone lines all lighting up with reporters’ questions.

How long until this shit show dies down? Yes, I probably deserve some public backlash after the way I acted in Malta, but they’ve conveniently left out the part where Ella and I had been hounded by those jackasses for weeks and weeks until we’d finally been pushed past the breaking point. They’ve also left out the way the guy was taunting me and the way he caught Ella with a left hook.

Putting it all in context, most people might not be surprised that I lost my temper. Most reasonable people probably would have done the same thing.

Context doesn’t matter, though. All that matters are clicks, views, and sensational headlines. Ironically, it’s my own media empire that’s leading the charge against me. The worst, most salacious headlines are coming from news outlets that I own.

I walk over to my desk and pick up the phone, dialing the familiar number of the NewsCorp headquarters in Glasgow without thinking.

"Benny," I say when the UK News Director’s voice greets me. "Put me in contact with a reporter. A friendly reporter."

I hang up and wait, but not for long. My phone rings again almost immediately. Does it blur a few ethical lines for the person in charge of news programming to help me leak a few favorable stories?

Probably.

Do I care?

Not even a little.

Why else would I keep paying his extortionate salary?

When I answer the phone, I’m relieved to hear a genuinely friendly voice on the other end of the line.

"Good to speak to you again, Lord Greyrose. I don’t know if you remember me, but I’m Evan O’Connell with the Times."

"Of course," I sigh relievedly as I settle into my chair at my desk. "How have you been, Evan?"

"Well enough, thank you. I would ask the same, but I’ve seen the unfortunate news coming out of Malta."

"Indeed," I sigh. "That’s why I wanted to speak to someone here, someone from Scotland who knows me a little better than the foreign press."

"I appreciate that you thought of me, sir," he continues. "And I’ll be happy to help you get your side of the story out there for the public to hear."

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