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Never looking away from me, he grabs the nearest napkin and dips it into the pitcher of water to his right. With an expression of pure concentration, he wipes away the thin layer of foundation I put on this morning. Last night, when I took off the heavy wedding makeup, I was disappointed to see that the remnants of the bruise Desmond gave me were still standing out on my face. Instead of purply-red, it was greenish-yellow. A healing bruise, sure, but obviously a mark that I still needed to hide.

So, instead of brushing my teeth this morning, I went to work with the makeup that made its way from Dad’s house to Adrian’s fuckingmansion. Too much and that would catch his attention. Too little and the bruise would stand out.

I didn’t want him to see it. I wish I could understand why. If he saw it and didn’t care, that would break me. But if he saw it anddidcare? That would be worse somehow, I think.

I can tell when he wipes away enough to see the bruise because he sucks in a breath, his cheeks hollowing as he lowers the napkin so that he isn’t rubbing the tender skin more than he has to.

Tossing the napkin to the table, he lays his hand flat, gripping it instead of reaching for me again. “Who did it, Loni?”

I shake my head. “It’s nothing?—”

A soft rumble deep in his chest, a warning that I’m wrong. That it isn’t ‘nothing’. “Don’t make me ask again. Who hurt you?”

There’s no point in lying. “Desmond, okay? So don’t think me a heartless bitch because I didn’t shed a tear after you killed him. If you ask me, he deserved it.”

Adrian’s eyes flash angrily. “He deserves far more than a mercy killing. Three shots and he might’ve felt one. Fuck. If I knew… he would’ve felt the whole damn magazine before I let him die.”

My stomach twists. It’s not hunger. It’s not fear at seeing the return of his murderous side.

It’s arousal.

Shit.

EIGHT

RULES

LONI

Seeing Adrian Heller ready to kill for me again does something to me that I’m almost too ashamed to admit—even to myself. I hate him. At least, I’m pretty sure I do. He made my life hell for so long, then betrayed me. I lost everything because of him… and I’d forget all of that because he hates Desmond more than me?

I step away from him. When he lets me go easily, I know I made the right choice. Grabbing my chair, I tug it out, then plop down into it before gesturing toward the spread on the table.

“You cooked breakfast for us?”

Adrian is quiet for a moment. And then, with a hint of a smile, he asks, “Are you trying to change the subject, princess?”

Is it that obvious?

“I don’t want to talk about Desmond,” I say firmly. “If you do, I’m going back to my room.”

“Without breakfast? You refused dinner last night. And Dallas told me you barely touched your lunch yesterday before the wedding.”

How does he know that? Well, Dallas told him. Duh. Of course he did. Only… why does he give a shit?

I shrug. “If I get hungry, I’ll eat.”

Adrian purses his lips, finally releasing his iron grip on the edge of the table. He grabs both of the coffee mugs instead, giving me his back as he walks over to the counter. There’s this big stainless steel contraption there. He fiddles with it, and after a couple of tense minutes full of awkward silence, he comes back with two steaming cups of coffee.

He gives me one, putting the other down next to his plate. Sitting down again, leaning lazily into his seat, he nods over at me. “You said one of the meals had to be breakfast. Count this as one of them. Now eat.”

I figured that was his idea when he knocked on my door. And, to be honest, it looks pretty good.

Using my spoon, I scoop some of the eggs onto my plate. I swap the spoon for a fork, spearing two pancakes and adding them beside the eggs. Once I pour some of the syrup on top of the pancakes, I grab the tiny carafe of milk I just notices. A splash added to my coffee and I’m ready to eat.

Adrian, though, simply watches in approval as I make my plate. His own stays empty. He does pick up his coffee, blowing away the steam before taking a tentative sip. He nods, then sets it down again.

My fork hangs from between two fingers, hovering in the air. I waggle it at him. “You’re not going to eat?”