Page 85 of Titan

“This isn’t my home,” I say softly. I don’t want to hurt him, not anymore.

He strides quickly through the penthouse with me in his arms, the normal care he would take to move around the space no longer there. His wings scratch and hit the walls, and more than one painting falls from the hallway walls as we pass.

“Don’t you want—” I start as a small impressionist painting falls to the ground with a loud crash.

“No.” He doesn’t even turn to see what he knocked down.

I peer over his shoulder, pretty sure from the brief glance I get that it is a pale painting of two people strolling along a river. I recognize the famous piece but am unsure of the name. With how forcefully Titan knocked it off the wall, it slid down the hallway to stop inches from the elevator.

“Stop. That has to be at least a hundred grand that just fell on your floor.” I tug at his neck as if I can get him to stop by pulling on his brakes. “I can wait. Really, I’m fine. We should pick it up though. I’m fine.”

The movement is so sudden, I lose my breath. Titan, still holding me to him with one arm, uses his free claw to violently tear down another painting, then another, then another. His chest rises and falls with labored breath. His marble eyes shine brightly, and his fanged teeth glint in eager anticipation. His muscles feel so tense under my body, I worry he might crack from the sheer force of the tension.

“Stop!” I shout and slap my palms against his chest. I wince in pain.

And he does, immediately stilling with his clawed hand raised inches above the next painting, what has to be a small Picasso watercolor. My guess is that it would go to auction for something in the millions.

For a moment, I think he will heed my command, that he will calm down. We can stop and hang up all the pictures. But suddenly, I feel myself become weightless in Titan’s arms as he drops to his knees.

“Titan?” I gasp.

He cradles me to his chest, sitting back on his clawed heels. I cling to him tighter as my ass settles on his thighs.

“Do you truly think I give a fuck about any single item in this place more than you?” He bows his head to me, holding me still between his horns.

I stare at him, sick and eager and so empty and everything all at once. My heart races, and my stomach tightens. I can’t think right now. My brain, which has always been so good at making and sticking to plans, fails me when I’m around Titan.

“Do you think that for one moment I would let you feel pain for a trifle?”

“It’s a Picasso. Let me feel a little pain for what is literally millions at auction.” I laugh. I want to talk about money.ThatI don’t have to think about,thatI just know.

Titan captures my chin in his claws and angles my gaze to meet his. His stone brows are pulled together, and his mouth is a firm line curving down at the very corners of his fangs.

“If that painting gave you a papercut, I would burn it,” he growls.

His gray eyes search mine with piercing intensity and, unconsciously, I jerk back, but he holds me still.

After seconds or minutes of silence—I just know I don’t breathe during it—he stands, holding me in his arms, and starts walking towards the bedroom.

“I can’t think in there,” I say softly.

“I need to clean your cuts.” He stops.

“Not there. Please.”

Titan says nothing but turns and heads towards the kitchen. He grabs a clean towel and dampens it in the sink. He picks up a small first aid kit that Eden must’ve stowed for herself in one of the drawers. Then he carries me into the dining room. The huge length of the dark wood table is bare for the first time.

He sets me on the table, and I reach for the towel.

“Let me.” When I don’t drop my hand, he adds, “Please.”

I drop my hand.

He starts at my face, wiping the dirt from my forehead and cheeks. The towel is cool on my overheated skin, and while the texture of the terry cloth is at times rough on my bruised flesh, it feels too good to be clean. He is gentle and thorough, seeming to note each cut and bruise and check for further damage, which, luckily, there seems to be little of. He moves down to my neck and chest, then arms, then skips to my feet. They are the dirtiest and most badly cut up. The cloth turns nearly black.

Silently, he leaves for the kitchen. I’m left alone as he gets another clean damp cloth. I’m afraid to speak, because, even alone, I’m not sure what will come out. When I arrived at the penthouse for the event earlier this evening, I’d been struck by how much I missed him, but also how much anger still burned inside me. That can’t suddenly change just because I almost died.

Can it?

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