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It’s her that drives me to the edge, of course it’s her, but she trembles around me, squeezes me, calls out my name, and it’s all over. She devours me in every way, and the intensity of my release practically rips me to shreds. We collapse together, our breaths huffing out and melding, and when we both calm, when our chests rise gentler, and the world returns, our eyes light, and our lips curve.
“That was amazing,” she says, running her fingers over my lips. “You’re amazing.”
“Only when I’m with you, baby. Don’t forget that.” I kiss her. “I’ll get you something.”
With a push off of the bed, I walk into the bathroom, and I pause for an icy moment as my gaze lands on Alana’s clothes where they lie on the glossy white tile, and it’s almost as if they bleed where they rest. I damn sure bleed inside as I imagine the filth of another man’s hands on her body, anger bubbling inside me, acid and thick sludge in my gut.
I swore to Alana I would not kill my father, but I didn’t say I wouldn’t kill the men who kidnapped her. And I damn sure didn’t promise my father anything but a fate worse than death. I snatch up a hand towel for Alana and will my temper in check. This is not what she needs from me right now. Even knowing this, it’s another several sharp beats, and my feet are still planted.
“Damion!” Alana calls out, her voice the gentle breeze over the choppy waters of my emotions that calms the storm inside me.
I return to her and slide the towel between her legs. She laughs and says, “I think it might be too late to save a mess.”
I scoop her over to my side of the bed. “We’ll stay over here, nice and close.”
She kisses my jaw, a delicate feathered brush of her perfect little mouth, and says, “I like being nice and close, Damion.” She says my name as if it’s sugar on her tongue that she wasn’t able to resist.
“Alana,” I say, my voice a playful rasp laden with emotions. I almost lost her again, and this time forever. I will slay dragons before I allow anyone to hurt her again. “My future wife,” I add, trying to stay light, but the roughly sewn words threaten a different mood I’m trying to avoid.
But Alana doesn’t seem to notice. She rotates around, her hand on my chest, her cheeks flush, accenting the delight in her eyes. “My future husband. That feels strangely wonderful to say.”
Despite all the things I’ve done, all the ways I allowed my father to shape me and my life, I’m strangely wonderful with her in my life. “It does,” I agree. “And we still didn’t plan the wedding.”
“I thought we decided we’d have it here, where we can share naughty memories while people act refined and proper.”
The corner of my mouth quirks. “As appealing as that idea is, I want you to have the wedding of your dreams.”
Her smile fades and she eases back to my shoulder—not a word spoken, not a dream revealed, the air thick with a shift in her mood.
“What just happened?” I ask, my hand settling on her head and stroking her hair.
“Nothing. I’m just happy to be home.”
“Alana,” I press. “What just happened?”
“Hmmm, well for one thing, I need to go to the bathroom.”
She rolls away swiftly and is off the end of the bed before I can stop her. I throw my feet off the side of the mattress, sitting up just in time to catch a momentary glimpse of her creamy white skin, and perfect body, as she disappears inside the bathroom and shuts the door. She doesn’t shut the door. That’s not what we do. What the fuck just happened? Does she not want to marry me? No, I think immediately. Her smile glistened like diamonds in the sky when I called her my future wife.
She must be back to her fear that she’ll bring the wrath of my father onto me.
But even that doesn’t feel right.
I stand and don’t even consider grabbing my clothes. This isn’t a time for barriers or doors. And yet, that is exactly what we have—a door between us.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Damion
It crosses my mind as I stand in front of the bathroom door that something could have triggered a horrible memory of her kidnapping, and I’m gutted thinking about what that might be, how I might have caused her reaction. I knock on the door, and seconds tick by without a reply.
“Alana?”
The door swings open, and she stands there, a towel wrapped around her, her hand clenching it at her breast, as if it’s her much needed shelter, when less than an hour before, she was oblivious to her nakedness. It’s with mammoth willpower that I somehow resist the urge to pull her to me, not to touch her at all. “Why are you in there and I’m out here?”
“My dream wedding is you and me, here or someplace far away. Just you and me. Is that okay?” Her voice is raspy, affected. Whatever has led her to this point is not gentle, nor is it from the mind of a little girl I saw play fairytale games growing up.
I reach out and gently, tentatively, capture her free hand. “Did I do something wrong?”
