Page 16 of Protect Me
“And me?” I ask, leaning in. “What do I strike you as?”
“An animal,” she says. “Broody, moody, dark. So, I’d say you’re the growly one.”
The mug starts to tip, so I reach out and press a finger to the warm ceramic, straightening it so she doesn’t accidentally dump hot water all over herself. “You have me pegged, Sway.”
Her lips part, pupils dilating. “I like when you say my name.” She takes another drink. “These herbs work fast.”
“I like saying your name,” I reply. “And that’s the plan. We don’t want you in pain.”
“Is it that, or do you want me to spill all of my secrets?”
“I don’t want to learn your secrets because you weren’t able to keep them. I want you to tell me because you trust me.”
“Trust,” she whispers. A tear slips from her eye, so I reach forward and wipe it, my thumb brushing against her flesh. “I’m sorry. I—”
“Don’t apologize,” I say. “But you need to finish that tea.”
She takes another drink. “I hope tomorrow is better. It has to be better, right?”
“It will be because you’re here.”
Her gaze narrows on me. “You surprise me. All three of you do.” Her expression softens, and she adds, “You’re so pretty to look at.”
I stiffen because never in my life have I ever been referred to as pretty. I’m the monster that lurks in the shadows. A scarred, dark presence that will deal out death in the blink of an eye and without hesitation. She had it right earlier.
Duncan is the refined one.
Killian, the wildcard.
But me? I’m more than growly. I’m damaged goods.
She finishes off her tea before offering me the mug. I take it and set it on the table at her side then risk her slapping my hand away as I reach forward and brush a strand of dark hair from her face. Her cloudy amber eyes hold mine. “So pretty.” She reaches forward with one hand and runs the tip of her finger down the scar that splits my left brow and runs the length of my face.
I freeze.
I’ve never been caressed.
I fuck hard. Carnal. Most women don’t even look at me when I’m inside of them because I’m too much of an animal. But Sway watches me, unafraid. Which makes me wonder how much horror she’s seen that she’d refer to me as ‘pretty.’
“What happened to your face?” she asks.
And, for reasons I can’t name, I actually tell her the truth. “I used to belong to a House that ran an underground supernatural fight ring. I fought to survive and took a broken bottle to the face for my trouble.”
I tense, waiting for her to pull away. The story I just told her, however condensed, is one I’ve only told three others in this world. My brothers and D.
Her gaze furrows, but she doesn’t drop her hand. “Your own people forced you to fight?”
“Yes.”
“That’s horrible.”
I lean in closer so I can make out the flecks of gold in her eyes. “Then I suppose we have something in common. We both come from places we’d rather not go back to.”
She drops her hand. “I like your eyes. Like the forest.”
“I like yours,” I reply then reach up to run the tip of my finger over the side of her face. It may be the herbs granting us this moment of trust, and while I won’t take it too far, I’m enough of a bastard to try to use it to my advantage by sneaking past the walls she’s erected around herself.
“I’m so tired.” Her eyes begin to droop, and I realize breaking down those walls will have to wait.