Page 55 of Watched

“Ohhh, you were worried because I flew back for my ex.” He cleans the putrid smell off him and turns off the water, taking a towel. “Jealousy looks good on you, baby.”

“I’m not jealous, you twat.” I step back when he reaches for my face. “Leave.”

“No—and just so you know, I was made to go there to ensure Blade didn’t kidnap Alexa.” He smirks, once again looking at me like I’m a piece of meat. “That photo was hot.”

I swallow my nerves and point to the door. “Leave.”

“Unless you knock me out with that bat, I’m not leaving. I won’t try to fuck you. I just want to sleep beside you. It’s been a shit week.”

“No.”

“Unless you want to. I’ll suck you dry, just like I promised. Tonight. Tomorrow.”

Heat rises up my neck, and I give him my back, but he grips my shoulder. A flare of rage ignites in my chest and I fist my hand, swinging it around. Pain explodes in my hand when it collides with his jaw, and I swallow my heart when blood pours from his lip.

He laughs, wiping it with the back of his hand. “Decent.”

“I’ll do it again if you don’t leave.” I step back, fisting my hand as he closes the distance between us, holding out his hand. “Wh-what?”

“Give me your hand.”

“I’m fine.”

He lunges for me, wrapping an arm around my middle. His warm, wet skin slides against my bare chest as he snatches my hand to inspect it. I’m momentarily paralysed by his thumb grazing my knuckle, my eyes transfixed on the droplet sliding down his cheek until a streak of red moves in my periphery. Blood trickles from his lip, gliding down his neck.

What are you doing, Rome?

I grip his shoulder and turn him to sit on the bed.

“Change your mind?” he teases.

“Your lip is bleeding.”

“Kiss it better?”

“No.”

My fingers slip from his, and I step into the bathroom to wet a cloth. Gently holding his chin, I lift his head and lightly wipe the blood from his neck.

“You care about me,” he croons.

“I do not.”

“You’re cleaning blood off me. That counts as caring.”

“I don’t care for however you’re interpreting this.”

He rolls his eyes, the cut stretching as he smiles, his hands wrapping around the backs of my thighs to pull me forward between his legs. I sway and shoot my hand to his shoulder to steady myself. Ignoring the pounding in my chest, I focus on cleaning his neck while his hands trail fire up and down the backs of my thighs.

“Do you want that massage?” he asks softly, like he wasn’t just threatening a man’s life not ten minutes ago.

“I get one tomorrow,” I mutter, pressing my thumb to his bottom lip to hold it in place while wiping the cut slowly. It stretches again. “Stop smiling.”

“Can’t help it,” he mumbles.

I should kick him down the stairs and force away the guilt of making him bleed, but that’s not me, and I refuse to allow my anger toward him change my kind nature.

“Why do you do that?” he asks quietly.