Stolen Lust (Beauty in the Stolen 1)

I slam the glass down on the table, making a few drops of wine spill over the rim. “Do not defend that motherfucker.”

She flinches. “He just followed protocol.” Her voice is a little softer, as if she thinks my anger is directed at her. “I had a lawyer friend go over the contract.”

Right. She didn’t deserve that. No matter. I’ll fix it. Using years of practiced skill, I suppress the urge to go find that fucker right now and make him pay for being an asshole. I get a handle on the violence flowing through my veins and control my anger. I own it, until I’m able to speak again.

My tone is calm, my voice soft as I ask, “Any luck?”

“Not yet,” she says, regarding me like someone would watch an oil drill on the verge of exploding.

She won’t have much luck around here. It’s a small town. With the current economic situation, not many businesses are hiring. “What are your plans?”

“Maybe I’ll try in Johannesburg.”

I don’t like the sound of that. I don’t like not knowing where she lives or where she works. “Finish your dinner,” I say, keeping the order kind.

Obediently, she takes her fork and continues to pick at her food. While she’s eating, I enjoy the view. I take the time to study her eyes like I couldn’t at the hideout. I memorized the lines of her face and the perfect shape of her eyebrows while she’d been sleeping.

Like a creep, I’d sat on the bed and took in the shape of those lips and the lashes that brushed her cheeks. I’d imagined those lips on my body and most of all around my cock. I’m still hungry for her eyes, so I take in the color as the daylight fades and candlelight plays over her face.

Her eyes are large and slightly slanted. A soft hint of violet reflects from the depth of the blue, making her irises shine like tanzanite, the rarest gemstone on the planet. Framed by those platinum waves, she looks like my sister Zoe’s doll before Zoe cut off the hair believing it was going to grow back.

Cas’s skin is spotless and pale like bone china with a peachy hue that colors her cheeks. I already know that skin is soft like chamois under my fingers. A skin like that had to bruise easily. If she were mine, I’d make damn sure there was never a bruise on her. The fading red lines around her wrists from the handcuffs I’d used still bothers me as much as the persistent pain in my shoulder, but I don’t look away from the sight. I made those marks. I own them, just like I own my regret. I can’t fix those temporary imperfections, but they’ll fade. I can’t get her back her job, but the offshore account I had set up for her will make up for her losses.

When she’s finally done eating, I carry our empty plates to the kitchen and load the dishwasher. I picked up panna cotta for dessert.

“More wine?” I ask as I serve her the custard and add a swirl of berry sauce.

She toys with her spoon. “No, thanks.”

We finish in silence. I don’t offer her coffee. She’ll only accept to postpone the inevitable. Instead, I pour her a glass of water and get her bag from the sofa. She doesn’t protest when I go through it and extract her pills, but she does slice me up with a cutting look that only makes me hard.

Shaking out two pills, I offer them on my palm. “How long since you’ve had dilated cardiomyopathy?”

Her eyes flare. “How do you know?”

“I did some reading.”

Her perfectly shaped, small, red-painted nails scrape over my palm as she takes the pills. “Why?”

The shiver she ignites goes all the way to my balls. “I like to read.”

She swallows the pills with the water and gives me a narrow-eyed glare. “About my medical condition?”

I needed to know if the shock I’d put her through was going to leave permanent damage and how to deal with any emergencies. I meant it when I said I’m not going to fuck around with her safety.

“About lots of things,” I say.

“Why?”

Obstinate. I grin. I like it. A little too much. “I didn’t finish high school. Whatever I want to know, I need to learn from books.”

The stiffness of her shoulders gives a bit, and some of the fear in her eyes melts to make way for understanding. “I barely finished school myself.”

I’m not letting her off the hook. “When were you diagnosed?”

“It’s genetic. I got it from my mom.”

I nod. “Is it painful?”

“No. I just get out of breath and tired sometimes.”

From what I’ve read, with chronic medication she can live a full and long life. “How about sport?”

“I can’t do anything too strenuous, but I enjoy dancing.”