I bite my tongue, drawing blood.
And I wish—oh, how I wish—that I still had that tiny knife I used to keep on my keychain.
“Look at me,” Damien snaps.
I comply. I even smile. I’m starting to get some control back.
I take a deep breath, relieved that I’m functioning. But oh god, oh god, this isn’t going to stop. It’s out there, and they’re going to keep coming, and it isn’t going to stop.
“Carl,” I whisper. “This is what he was warning me about.”
“Maybe, but I don’t think so.”
“Who then?”
“Does Ollie know about the painting?”
“No!” The word comes fast and hard, but then I immediately falter. Could he have found out somehow? “No,” I say again. “And even if he did, he’d keep quiet. I’m not the one he wants to hurt.”
“Don’t be so sure,” Damien says darkly.
I swallow, because Damien has to be wrong. Even if he’s right about Ollie being in love with me, surely Ollie wouldn’t do this just to get back at me for being with Damien. Would he?
I close my eyes because I can’t stand to think about it. “Who doesn’t matter,” I say, tightening my fist again. “It’s out there.”
Damien doesn’t answer, and we drive toward downtown in silence, Damien’s anger so thick it fills the car.
“How did you know?” I finally ask.
“Jamie. She’s home. Apparently she had to push through them, too, and they were asking her about the painting. She pretended not to have a clue, then called you.”
“My phone’s dead,” I say numbly.
“I know. She called me when she couldn’t reach you, and I tried you, too. When I couldn’t get you on the phone to tell you to stay away—”
“You came to rescue me yourself.”
“Fortunately I was in Beverly Hills and you made a stop before going home.”
“Thank you,” I say.
He turns just long enough to glance at me, and his smile is sad. “I will always protect you,” he says. “But this—”
He cuts himself off sharply and I see his knuckles turn white as he grips the steering wheel. I understand. He can’t protect me from this, and he hates that.
Frankly, I’m not crazy about it, either.
Damien stays quiet until we enter the apartment. But the moment we do, he lashes out. In one fluid motion he grabs and hurls the ornamental vase that holds the floral arrangement that is the focal point of the foyer.
“Goddammit!” he shouts, the crescendo of his voice underscored by the tinkle of shattering glass hitting the floor and the splash as water flies everywhere.
I do nothing but stand there. I know how he feels. I want to lash out and break something, too.
No, that’s not true. I don’t want to lash out, but I desperately wish that I did. I wish that I could grab a glass trinket and throw it hard against the floor and take comfort in the fact that it is my hands and my power that have caused it to shatter.
But that is not what will satisfy me. Those shards of glass would not be an end for me, but a means to an end. And I would not be comforted until the glass is cutting a line in my flesh, and I have latched on so tight to the pain that it erases all the other horrors around me. Those horrible camera flashes. The jeers from the reporters. The embarrassment, the humiliation, and the knowledge that no matter what, for the rest of my life, this is never going to go away.
I shiver, feeling so very fragile, and I imagine the weight of a knife in my hand.
No.
With effort, I force myself not to cross the room and pick up a piece of the broken vase. Instead, I look at Damien, who stands with clenched fists and real anguish on his face. “It will be okay,” I say, because that is the kind of platitude that people say, even if they don’t really believe it.
“Screw okay,” he snaps. This is the temper that was so famous in his tennis days, and that has fueled his reputation for being dangerous. A sharp brittle breaking point that got him in too many fights and left too many scars, including the dark eye that is now looking at me with a bitter, resolute anger.
“None of this should be happening,” he says. “I should be able to protect you. I should be able to keep my bastard of a father out of my life and out of my car. I don’t want him or his shit near me, and I sure as hell don’t want it near you. And as for the rest of it all over the goddamn globe—”
He cuts himself off, and for a moment I think that it is out of his system.
It isn’t. “I should be able to keep your secrets as well as my own. But then again,” he adds with a mirthless laugh, “that’s crashing down, too. Goddammit.” He lashes out so fast and hard that he puts his fist through the drywall.
I gape. “Well,” I say. “That’s going to need more than a broom and a dustpan.”
He stares at me for a moment, and then his shoulders begin to shake. It takes a moment for me to realize he’s laughing. Not because it is funny, but because he is overwhelmed.
I want to hold him; I want to help him. But I can’t even help myself.
I draw in a trembling breath, and realize that my hand is curled around the end of the pink scarf that still hangs around my neck.
Slowly, I tug the end of the scarf until I have pulled it free. I wrap one end tightly around my wrist, then hand the other end to Damien. He takes it, though I see the question in his eyes.
“Tie me up,” I whisper. “Spank me. Tell me exactly what you want me to do. Do whatever you want. You want to lash out? Lash out against me.”
“Nikki—”
“Please, Damien. You can’t control the world? So what? Control me.” I meet his eyes. “Please,” I say, and I hear the tremor in my voice. “Please,” I whisper. “I need it, too.”
“Oh, Nikki.” He cocks his head, looking inside me to where all my secrets lie. “Need?” he clarifies. “Or want?”
I lick my lips, as if that will make the words come easier. “You told me once that if I ever needed the pain that I should come to you. I’ve broken that promise twice.” I point to my hair, and then the tip of my finger. “So yes, Damien. I need it. I need you if I’m going to get through this. And I think you need me, too.”
For a moment, he says nothing. Then he runs the scarf through his fingers. “I believe I told you on the phone that I had plans for this.”
“Yes,” I say.
He stands still, and looks me up and down. His gaze starts at my feet and travels oh so slowly up my body. He does not touch me, but still my body burns merely from the passing of his glance. I let myself go, surrendering to his power over me. Over my body. I want this. I want Damien and his strength. I want his touch.
Mostly I want him to make the rest of the world go away.
He continues his heated inspection, his face as dark and hungry as a wolf, and just as dangerous. He will consume me, and so help me, I want to be consumed. I want to disappear—I want to go somewhere that only Damien can find me.
My legs are weak, my sex throbbing in anticipation. Tiny drops of sweat form between my breasts, and my nipples strain against my T-shirt.
I keep my eyes on his, and my mouth goes dry, my pulse kicking up its tempo. He is no longer the Damien who jokes and teases, who holds and soothes me. This is not a man who will reveal his secrets to me or to anyone, and he is certainly not a man who will explode outward into a fiery rage.
And I wish—oh, how I wish—that I still had that tiny knife I used to keep on my keychain.
“Look at me,” Damien snaps.
I comply. I even smile. I’m starting to get some control back.
I take a deep breath, relieved that I’m functioning. But oh god, oh god, this isn’t going to stop. It’s out there, and they’re going to keep coming, and it isn’t going to stop.
“Carl,” I whisper. “This is what he was warning me about.”
“Maybe, but I don’t think so.”
“Who then?”
“Does Ollie know about the painting?”
“No!” The word comes fast and hard, but then I immediately falter. Could he have found out somehow? “No,” I say again. “And even if he did, he’d keep quiet. I’m not the one he wants to hurt.”
“Don’t be so sure,” Damien says darkly.
I swallow, because Damien has to be wrong. Even if he’s right about Ollie being in love with me, surely Ollie wouldn’t do this just to get back at me for being with Damien. Would he?
I close my eyes because I can’t stand to think about it. “Who doesn’t matter,” I say, tightening my fist again. “It’s out there.”
Damien doesn’t answer, and we drive toward downtown in silence, Damien’s anger so thick it fills the car.
“How did you know?” I finally ask.
“Jamie. She’s home. Apparently she had to push through them, too, and they were asking her about the painting. She pretended not to have a clue, then called you.”
“My phone’s dead,” I say numbly.
“I know. She called me when she couldn’t reach you, and I tried you, too. When I couldn’t get you on the phone to tell you to stay away—”
“You came to rescue me yourself.”
“Fortunately I was in Beverly Hills and you made a stop before going home.”
“Thank you,” I say.
He turns just long enough to glance at me, and his smile is sad. “I will always protect you,” he says. “But this—”
He cuts himself off sharply and I see his knuckles turn white as he grips the steering wheel. I understand. He can’t protect me from this, and he hates that.
Frankly, I’m not crazy about it, either.
Damien stays quiet until we enter the apartment. But the moment we do, he lashes out. In one fluid motion he grabs and hurls the ornamental vase that holds the floral arrangement that is the focal point of the foyer.
“Goddammit!” he shouts, the crescendo of his voice underscored by the tinkle of shattering glass hitting the floor and the splash as water flies everywhere.
I do nothing but stand there. I know how he feels. I want to lash out and break something, too.
No, that’s not true. I don’t want to lash out, but I desperately wish that I did. I wish that I could grab a glass trinket and throw it hard against the floor and take comfort in the fact that it is my hands and my power that have caused it to shatter.
But that is not what will satisfy me. Those shards of glass would not be an end for me, but a means to an end. And I would not be comforted until the glass is cutting a line in my flesh, and I have latched on so tight to the pain that it erases all the other horrors around me. Those horrible camera flashes. The jeers from the reporters. The embarrassment, the humiliation, and the knowledge that no matter what, for the rest of my life, this is never going to go away.
I shiver, feeling so very fragile, and I imagine the weight of a knife in my hand.
No.
With effort, I force myself not to cross the room and pick up a piece of the broken vase. Instead, I look at Damien, who stands with clenched fists and real anguish on his face. “It will be okay,” I say, because that is the kind of platitude that people say, even if they don’t really believe it.
“Screw okay,” he snaps. This is the temper that was so famous in his tennis days, and that has fueled his reputation for being dangerous. A sharp brittle breaking point that got him in too many fights and left too many scars, including the dark eye that is now looking at me with a bitter, resolute anger.
“None of this should be happening,” he says. “I should be able to protect you. I should be able to keep my bastard of a father out of my life and out of my car. I don’t want him or his shit near me, and I sure as hell don’t want it near you. And as for the rest of it all over the goddamn globe—”
He cuts himself off, and for a moment I think that it is out of his system.
It isn’t. “I should be able to keep your secrets as well as my own. But then again,” he adds with a mirthless laugh, “that’s crashing down, too. Goddammit.” He lashes out so fast and hard that he puts his fist through the drywall.
I gape. “Well,” I say. “That’s going to need more than a broom and a dustpan.”
He stares at me for a moment, and then his shoulders begin to shake. It takes a moment for me to realize he’s laughing. Not because it is funny, but because he is overwhelmed.
I want to hold him; I want to help him. But I can’t even help myself.
I draw in a trembling breath, and realize that my hand is curled around the end of the pink scarf that still hangs around my neck.
Slowly, I tug the end of the scarf until I have pulled it free. I wrap one end tightly around my wrist, then hand the other end to Damien. He takes it, though I see the question in his eyes.
“Tie me up,” I whisper. “Spank me. Tell me exactly what you want me to do. Do whatever you want. You want to lash out? Lash out against me.”
“Nikki—”
“Please, Damien. You can’t control the world? So what? Control me.” I meet his eyes. “Please,” I say, and I hear the tremor in my voice. “Please,” I whisper. “I need it, too.”
“Oh, Nikki.” He cocks his head, looking inside me to where all my secrets lie. “Need?” he clarifies. “Or want?”
I lick my lips, as if that will make the words come easier. “You told me once that if I ever needed the pain that I should come to you. I’ve broken that promise twice.” I point to my hair, and then the tip of my finger. “So yes, Damien. I need it. I need you if I’m going to get through this. And I think you need me, too.”
For a moment, he says nothing. Then he runs the scarf through his fingers. “I believe I told you on the phone that I had plans for this.”
“Yes,” I say.
He stands still, and looks me up and down. His gaze starts at my feet and travels oh so slowly up my body. He does not touch me, but still my body burns merely from the passing of his glance. I let myself go, surrendering to his power over me. Over my body. I want this. I want Damien and his strength. I want his touch.
Mostly I want him to make the rest of the world go away.
He continues his heated inspection, his face as dark and hungry as a wolf, and just as dangerous. He will consume me, and so help me, I want to be consumed. I want to disappear—I want to go somewhere that only Damien can find me.
My legs are weak, my sex throbbing in anticipation. Tiny drops of sweat form between my breasts, and my nipples strain against my T-shirt.
I keep my eyes on his, and my mouth goes dry, my pulse kicking up its tempo. He is no longer the Damien who jokes and teases, who holds and soothes me. This is not a man who will reveal his secrets to me or to anyone, and he is certainly not a man who will explode outward into a fiery rage.
