The Brit

I make to turn but get stopped by the feel of her hand on my hip. I look down and see her bloody palm spread on the waist of my jeans. “What if I told you that I care about you?”

“I’d say you are either stupid or suicidal.”

“Maybe I’m both.”

“Maybe I don’t give a fuck.” I try to shake her off, but she stands firm, moving in front of me until our chests are compressed, her bra-covered breasts pushed into my T-shirt. I don’t have much willpower left.

“I call bullshit.” She slides her hand onto my shoulder. “I say you’re scared.”

“Of what?”

“Me.”

I can’t argue with that. But I should. “I’ve never been scared of anything.”

“Me neither. Not for a long time.” She reaches up on her tiptoes and pushes her mouth to my cheek. I swear, every time her mouth touches a part of me, a little bit of something good sinks into me. “Until you.”

My head loses all strength, dropping until my mouth meets her bare shoulder. She still smells of me. I can hear my father bellowing at me, reminding me of my obligations and of the weakness women present. He nearly fell into that trap once. “You’re not scared of me,” I point out. “And that’s what scares me.” Breaking our contact, I move away. The simple step is harder than I’ve ever found it to end a man’s life.

Finding some vigor, I bend and collect the razor blade from the floor, wrapping it in tissue and flushing it down the toilet. Then I grab a towel and wrap her arm in it, keeping my eyes on my task, feeling her watching me. “Be wise, Rose,” I say, collecting the knife, turning, and leaving the bathroom. “I’ll have a doctor come sort those cuts.” I ignore the pull trying to take me back and virtually throw myself out her bedroom door.

I bump into Brad, and his eyes fall to my arm. Any normal man would assume she’d turned things around and attacked me. But it’s Brad.

“You need stiches,” he says, grimacing at my mess of an arm.

“And my head checked,” I tell him as I head to the office. I don’t know what that woman’s game is. I don’t know why she’s not scared of me. And I know I shouldn’t want to know. But why the fuck did she take a blade to her arm? It wasn’t a suicide attempt. She wasn’t trying to escape me.

Was she punishing herself?

I can’t shove aside my desire for knowledge. It’s almost as powerful as my desire for her.

Almost?

Nowhere near.

Either way, I’m fucked.

Chapter 14

ROSE

* * *

The feeling of guilt is twisting my head. My sense of regret is turning my stomach. If I didn’t know better, I would think Danny’s suspicious of me. Being around him is getting harder by the hour. I need to get out of here before I lose my mind. Seducing him should be easy. Especially given I can see how much he wants me. I’ve never failed to get what I want from a man. It’s always been clean and easy. This time, though, it’s messy and hard. I’ve been told what I need to do, but I’m meeting resistance. I would say he’s the sensible of the two of us. But he’s not the one straddling life and death. I don’t want to trick him into confiding in me. I don’t want to share his secrets. It’s beyond me why, but I don’t want to betray him. Every time I think about it, my stomach flips, and not because I realize he’ll kill me if he finds out. It’s just . . . I don’t know. Maybe it’s a warped goodness in him I see glimmers of. Or maybe I’ve finally lost my mind.

Yet I have no choice. My life depends on it, and so does my son’s. As long as I play ball, my boy retains his happiness and freedom. As long as I do as I’m told, I get drip-fed pictures of him growing up. I get proof that he’s alive. That he’s happy and safe from the debased world I’m in. It’s never been a difficult decision to play ball.

Until now.

Everything about this feels wrong, and it has nothing to do with Danny being a murdering bast—

“Asshole,” I say to myself as I lie on the lounge chair on the terrace. I look down at my bandaged arm, and for the first time, I regret hurting myself. Not because I didn’t get that release of pressure I so desperately needed, but because he caught me doing it. He saw me in a moment of weakness, and I hate that. But more than that, I hate his reaction. Why? Why would he do that to himself? And what happens now?

I swallow and close my eyes, feeling exhausted. I didn’t sleep one wink last night, asking myself those questions. Why? What now? I see glimmers of a man somewhere close to human. Then flashes of a man somewhere close to a monster. I see a lightness in his eyes when we’ve verbally sparred. Then blackness when those moments abruptly end. He is a paradox.