Page 11 of Dark Knight

“Maybe?” He lowers his brow, his icy glare piercing me in the chest. It's either ice cold indifference or raging disapproval. Like a penny, heads or tails, you always know you’ll get one or the other. “You're not the first person I ever met who went through some serious shit. The kind of shit that makes you believe there’s no end in sight.”

“Did they get through it?”

He snorts, then lifts a muscular shoulder. “I don't know. I hope they did. But life took me in a different direction.”

My heart skips a beat when he comes closer, placing himself between me and the knife block. I have to back away—being this close to him is the last thing I need when he looks the way he does, like a GQ magazine had a baby with Ryan Reynolds, and smells so good, clean, like soap and musk, cinnamon and sleep. “You don't need to do that. There are much better alternatives.”

“Ha, you mean like going back on medication that makes me feel like a zombie, so all I want to do is sleep all day? Or maybe I should go back to therapy and dredge up all this shit over and over and only feel worse when I leave. Maybe you don’t remember, but I already tried that. I won’t do it again.”

“Those aren't the only options available, but I can promise you, your solution isn’t at the end of that blade.”

This is different. I'm not sure how to feel. It's like we're having an actual conversation. If I didn't know better, I would think he really cares what happens to me. Everything about him, from his posture to the stern expression he’s giving me, paints the picture of somebody who genuinely gives a damn.

I hate to admit it, being that Romero is a pain in the ass, but for the first time in months, I don't feel so alone. Bianca tried. I love her for it, but it still felt like she was on the other side of a deep, vast body of water, and all we could do was shout to each other from opposite banks. This is different. This feels genuine. He sees me the way I am now, not the way he wishes I could be again.

“I’m here to protect you.” There’s a ghost of a smirk fading in and out at the corners of his generous mouth. “Even if that means protecting you from yourself.”

I’m glad he said it. I am. Otherwise, I might have forgotten what a cold, heartless prick he is. “Of course,” I whisper. “I almost forgot, you can’t risk disappointing your boss, right? Wouldn’t want to report bad news.”

“No surprise there. Of course that’s the conclusion you’d jump to. Forgive me for assuming we were having a real conversation.” He lets out an annoyed sigh. Just like that, the bubble of attraction has popped.

“Like you said, this is your job.” I reach out and give his arm a soft smack, grimacing. “Good thing you made it down here when you did, or you might not have anything good to tell him when he calls to check in.”

The last thing I see before turning and leaving the room is a glimpse of his stony face. As always, everything’s shoved down deep. I bet he even believes he needs to be the way he is if he wants to do a good job. Remote. Removed.

It’s a shame he sucks at hiding the hatred burning behind his eyes. He can harden his jaw and go still as a statue, but he can’t cool the fire. It’s that blazing light I’m thinking of when I crawl back into bed feeling much better than before. No pressure. No pounding heart.

And when I fall asleep again, the nightmare doesn't follow me. Maybe the solution to all my problems lies in the one man I consider to be an enemy, the one man who maybe isn’t my enemy at all.

CHAPTER5

ROMERO

“You’ve been bitching and moaning for days over how you can’t stand sitting around here with nothing to do.” I grab my leather jacket from a hook near the front door. “Now, I ask you to go for a walk with me, and you can’t be bothered.”

“You didn’taskme to do anything.” She lifts her gaze from the book she’s reading. From the looks of the dark cover, it’s a thriller. It’s probably the last thing she needs to be reading when you consider what she’s been through, but what do I know? It might help her process things.

“Didn’t I? I told you, ‘Tatum, we’re going for a walk.”

“And what part of that involves a question or a request? Youtoldme we’re going for a walk.” She purses her lips and turns to the next page. “I declined. I’m reading my book.”

“Your book will be here when we get back. There’s something I want to show you.”

“Will that something still be there when I’m finished reading?”

Forget running away from Jefferson. I’ll be the one who ends her worthless, stupid life if she doesn’t quit it with this bullshit. I understand how frustrated she is—God knows I understand. I’m walking around the house like a caged animal with nothing to do but the tasks I can accomplish remotely, and even then, I have to wait for them to be assigned instead of taking the reins myself. Not being able to call out to the boss from my desk or cross the hall to ask a question is driving me out of my skull.

It never occurred to me until now how busy I always was. Sure, I knew I had a ton of pans on the fire at all times and more when shit was going down—new deals, broken deals, research on potential partners. That was the easy stuff, the everyday tasks I could perform without thinking much about them. Writing up contracts and sending emails.

Then, there was the reason I always carried a gun. Still do. It’s a hard habit to break, especially since I’m only here to keep this stubborn, vindictive little brat safe. It’s a good idea to keep myself armed in case things go south.

Tatum must remember it would take no effort for me to put a gun to her head. I’m not the type of man who she wants to push too far. All that’s stopping me right now from scaring her out of her mind is the thought of her father and how he knows this house exists and would blow my brains out after flaying the skin from my flesh if I so much as moved a hair out of place on her body.

“And here I was, thinking you wanted to know more about how I grew up, and all the other gory details.”

Her nostrils flare and her eyes stop moving. She’s either staring at the same sentence, or she doesn’t see the words anymore. I doubt she’s read a single word since I came downstairs after my post-workout shower. All she cares about is whether or not it looks like she gives a shit that I’m breathing.

“How long is this walk going to be?”

---