I closed my eyes, bracing for her stick. When it didn’t come, I slowly opened one eye.
The ruler she used was suspended midair, held in a vice grip—in West’s hand.
The wood looked ready to snap under his hand. Veins throbbed down the back of his hand and wrist, disappearing beneath the fabric of his suit.
The muscle in his clenched jaw pulsed. The shadow beneath his jaw dark and cut like glass. His warm brown eyes burned, focuse
d on me.
I’d only ever seen West like this once, the night his father attacked me.
“Mr.—Mr. du Lac,” Madame stammered.
He yanked the stick out of her hand, breaking it over his knee in one motion. The wood cracked in half, a few stray splinters hitting me in the face.
The two girls gasped.
“I…” Madame gulped. “I wasn’t expecting you for another two weeks.”
“Get. Out.”
They didn’t ask twice, shuffling out of the room in seconds.
And then we were alone.
Three
STORY
West ran soft fingers along the welts on my knuckles, cursing low.
I didn’t trust him.
I was too aware that I was barely dressed, only in a silk robe.
“Two weeks isn’t enough time…” he said low, under breath.
All at once he stood up, leaving the room. I sucked in lungfuls of air. Hoping he was gone for good, but moments later, he came back with a first aid kit.
He tugged at the back collar of my silk robe; I held it tighter.
“What are you doing?” My voice pitched in fear, and I hated that.
“I need to see your back.”
“No.”
“You were hit—”
“I can do it myself,” I snapped. I yanked my robe away, but he held firm, refusing. “I don’t need you.”
“You do, Angel. You need me.” I could hear the mean smile in his voice. “Even if you don’t want me, you need me.”
Still, he let me go. He came around, setting down the ointment and bandages on the nightstand. That stupid, cocky trademark West smirk on his plush lips.
“Go ahead.” He waved a hand at the first aid. “Do it yourself, then.”
“I will…later.”