Page 38 of Promise of Destruction (Destruction & Vengeance Duet #1)

thirty-six

Soren

I don’t remember falling asleep. I don’t remember anything from the time between Marissa and Khan showing up to me startling awake, gasping for air, unable to breathe no matter how hard I try.

My face is wet with tears. I don’t remember the dream, but I’m sure it was much the same as the ones before… blood, pain, death.

But this time, there’s something different. Hands on my throat, in my hair. A firm touch on my hips, grinding against my bones. It’s not the loving embrace of my husband and it doesn’t correlate to any memory I have.

Because it’s just a dream.

I wipe my face with the backs of my hands and then become aware of the nausea. When I move, liquid sloshes in my stomach like waves crashing against the side of a boat. I need something to soak up the alcohol or I’ll be throwing it up for the next twenty-four hours.

The whole way to the kitchen I can’t shake the fog of a bruising touch, another man’s foul breath on the nape of my neck.

Combined with the roiling of my stomach, I’m unable to focus on anything else—until the sharp slice of my skin splitting opens steals all of my attention.

A cry escapes me, and I jump on instinct, not wanting my foot to touch the ground with a shard of glass still embedded in it.

The action brings my other foot into contact with more glass, which crunches under my weight and bites into the soles of my feet.

The damn plates. Fuck.

I press my hand over my mouth, trying not to whimper lest it come out with the rest of the contents of my stomach, and survey my kitchen.

What the hell did we do?

My first step into the midst of the wreckage had been unaware, and the next had only taken me deeper into the wreckage. There’s no clear path back past the mess without stepping over more of it.

My garage door bursts open, startling me. I think my heart may jump out of my chest—especially when the figure steps into the light and I realize I know him. Instinct demands I take a step back, so I do.

Fuck.

This was the stupidest thing I’ve ever done. Damn Marissa and her awful ideas. It had felt so much more glorious than therapy in the moment, but my poor feet are now paying the price.

Declan closes the space between us and scoops me against him before I even get a chance to ask what he’s doing there.

Oh God.

No.

“Put me down!” I yell, twisting to get out of his grip. It only prompts him to hold me tighter against his broad chest.

“What the hell were you thinking?” He scolds me.

He doesn’t even look at me as he carries me to my bedroom.

Fear spikes inside me. It doesn’t mix well with the wine Marissa plied me with, but it does have the effect of making me feel painfully sober and hungover all at the same time.

“Please,” I say desperately. I know that I signed his contract, I know that I expected this, but it doesn’t make the pill any easier to swallow. “Please don’t.”

You are a whore, after all.

He throws me on my bed aggressively, his eyes dark and angry. I think they’re going to burn right through me, but it’s his command that sears into my skin.

“Stay.”

I know there’s nowhere to go. He’s in my house, past my defenses. My feet ache and burn, and I can feel that they’re wet with my own blood. I couldn’t run even if I wanted to.

He turns and stalks to my bathroom and my stupid brain fills with all the things he could be looking for when I hear him slamming cabinets open and shut. I can practically picture him coming back with duct tape and a knife—though I don’t have either of those just casually chilling in my bathroom.

What he does come back with is a washcloth, a bottle of rubbing alcohol, and a roll of gauze. He points to the edge of the bed; his jaw is clenched, making words impossible. I don’t know if that’s better or worse, but I haven’t really got an option anyway. I scoot myself to the edge of the bed.

He grabs my ankles with more force than necessary to pull me further toward him and I have to throw my hands out to catch myself from falling backwards.

“What were you thinking?” He finally speaks, lifting one foot in the direction of the light so that he can appraise the damage.

I wince when he plucks a sliver of ceramic from the flesh without warning. He douses the cloth in rubbing alcohol and presses it tightly against the wound. Despite the abruptness of his movements, his touch on the top of my foot is gentle.

I open my mouth to counter his question with one of my own, but then I remember the things my nightmare chased away.

The feeling of euphoria rushing through me as Marissa and I smashed every last plate, bowl, and mug in my cupboard.

We danced and drank and laughed like life was perfect and neither of us had ever known pain or loss or grief, and then Declan showed up.

I blink past the exchange with Khan, bits of which seem fragmented like the remains of my dish set, and remember him carrying me to my room. He left me on my bed, and I asked him not to leave.

No, I didn’t ask him. I asked if he was leaving, and when he asked if I wanted him to, I said no .

Why the hell did I say that?

Heat floods over me—a mixture of irritation with myself and embarrassment.

“I… I don’t feel well. I needed something to eat.” The thought of food makes the nausea worsen, and my stomach tilts, but I need something to soak up all the wine.

That seems to amuse him. The corner of his mouth ticks up.

Asshole.

He covers my foot in some salve I didn’t realize I had in the bathroom and winds the gauze around my foot with a surprising acuity, ripping it in half and tying it at the ankle so it won’t slip off.

He glances up at me from under the cover of his impossibly thick lashes; The look in his eye steals my breath.

“You’re not feeling well?”

“No.” I admit, once I find the air in my chest makes speaking capable. It still sounds a little wispy, but when I clear my throat, it comes out stronger. “I think I drank too much.”

“Brilliant deduction.” He smirks. “But your friend drugging you may have something to do with that.”

There’s a prick of pain as he retrieves another shard of glass. His touch chases the sting away when he runs his hand over my sole, checking for any other bits he may have missed.

He’s undeniably sexy on his knees, focused on the task at hand.

He’s still wearing his dress shirt, the tie forgotten and buttons loosed to show a patch of dark hair on his collarbone.

The top of his head is disheveled, his dark hair messy and falling in different directions.

For a moment I want to reach out and run my fingers through it.

For a moment I imagine him on his knees running his vicious tongue against the center of me.

It’s such an intrusive thought given that he has me in such a vulnerable position, but the thrill doesn’t fade when I push it out of my head.

He's silent while he works to clean the area and patch me up, repeating the same process he used on my left foot. The finished product resembles something like the pointe ballet shoes I had on my wall as a kid with their ribbons knotted around an invisible ankle. That makes me smile.

What he does next chases that away. He lifts my foot by the ankle and presses a quick kiss to the bottom of my bandaged foot, repeating it with the other.

It’s so quick that I wonder as he pushes himself to standing, whether that really happened. He doesn’t do or say anything to indicate that he just did something totally out of the realm of normal, instead gathering up the blood-soaked washcloth.

“I’m no doctor, but I think you’ll be just fine. Just stay off your feet a couple hours to give yourself time to heal.”

I narrow my eyes on him, but he’s too busy gathering everything up to pay me any attention. When he finally looks up at me, it’s with the authority and sharpness I expect of him. “Got it?”

I nod, which seems to satisfy him.

“I’ll bring you something to eat in a moment.” He looks quickly around the room and spots the remote on my nightstand. He hands it to me wordlessly and then stalks out of my room, leaving me to wonder out loud,

“What the fuck is going on right now?”