Dubious (The Loan Shark Duet 1)

Going through the shelves of her closet, I find one T-shirt, a tank top, a pair of jeans that has seen better days, and a pair of shorts. These are all the clothes she owns? I make a mental note to go through her belongings later and grab the T-shirt.

Helping her to sit up, I dress her. After what happened, I don’t want her to feel vulnerable, and nakedness will do that.

“What time is it?” she asks.

“Almost six.”

“I need to get ready for work.”

She tries to get up, but I push her down.

“Stay.”

“I’m fine.” She looks up at me through her wet lashes, her lips quivering.

Yeah. She looks anything but fine, but she’s obstinate and worried that she’ll fail in her job and therefore get shot.

“Don’t move,” I say with enough authority to make her obey as I leave the room.

In the kitchen, I pour a stiff shot of whiskey and take a mild sedative from the medicine kit. The remedy is natural and won’t have adverse effects with the alcohol.

Sitting down on the edge of Valentina’s bed, I lift her head, slip the pill into her mouth, and hold the glass to her lips. “Drink up.”

She doesn’t argue. Her blind obedience heats my insides. It’s a huge step, and I don’t think she realizes how much trust she’s showing me.

Depositing the empty glass on the floor, I take her hand in mine. Her bones are delicate and thin in my palm––breakable. There are scratches on her knuckles, but they’re not deep. We can worry about that later. The sight of those marks unleashes the monster in me, though, and it takes some effort to calm myself enough to ask, “Do you want to talk about it?” I do, but I’m not going to push. Not now, at least.

She puts a hand on her forehead. “I–I don’t feel so good.”

My body tenses, every muscle going taught. “What’s wrong?”

“I don’t know. I just feel weird.”

“Tell me what you feel.”

“Dizzy. The world is turning.”

The effect of the alcohol is kicking in, but instead of relaxing her, it’s making her drunk.

“When was the last time you ate?” I ask with caution.

She lifts her eyes to the ceiling while she thinks. “Lunch.”

I try to keep my voice normal. “Yesterday?”

She clutches my hand like a riptide is about to pull us apart. “Gabriel?”

“It’s just the whiskey I gave you to relax. You need food. I’ll get you something to eat.”

“You don’t have to. I can.” There’s a slight thickness to her speech.

“I know you can, beautiful.”

I pry her fingers open gently and go back to the kitchen to rummage through the fridge. Going for as much carbs, fat, and protein as I can find, I pile a plate high with leftover Bacon Carbonara and add lots of cheese. While the food is heating in the microwave, I grab a fork and paper napkin. Back in her room, I prop her back up against the pillows and twist the pasta around the fork. When I bring it to her mouth, she utters a weak protest.

“Open,” I say.

Again, she obeys.

I feed her until the plate is empty before I pull her into my lap. “You should sleep now.”

She shakes her head, brushing her cheek over my chest. “Can’t. Have work to do.”

“It’s an order, not a request.”

Her eyelids are already heavy. “Thank you for saving me.”

“You’re welcome.”

“Why were you there?”

I run my gaze over her face, drinking in her pretty features as the truth registers in her expression.

“You followed me?” she asks with disbelief, a tinge of hurt thrown into the mix.

“Your phone,” I replied flatly. “I planted a tracker in it before I gave it back to you.”

“Why? Don’t you trust me? Do you think I’ll run?”

If she knows the intensity of my obsession, it’ll expose the one weakness I can’t afford. I’ll lose my power over her, and that’s not something I’m willing to let go, ever, so I give her a warped version.

“You’re worth a lot of money to me, Valentina. I’m protecting my interests.”

Hurt shimmers in her eyes and creeps into the tremulous smile she gives me. “Of course. How could I forget? Four hundred thousand rand.”

I let a note of warning infuse my tone. “You chose. I never forced you.”

“You’re right.” A single tear slips free and runs over her cheek. “I’m sorry.”

Her apology catches me off-guard. “About what?”

“That this morning happened.”

I catch the drop on my thumb and stick it in my mouth, tasting her sorrow. “It wasn’t your fault.” I hesitate, choosing my words carefully. I don’t want to contradict what I just said by making her feel responsible for what happened. “What were you doing back at your flat?”

“Trying to sell it.”

There can only be one reason she would risk it out there to make a sale. The state of her almost bare closet gives me a hint. “You need the money that bad?”