Page 5 of Redemption (Favorite Malady Duet #2)

DANE

Three months ago

A fter I stalked Abigail home from the bar last night, I couldn’t sleep. So, I return to her apartment building before six AM. Which is a good thing, because she leaves her building at six-thirty.

Judging by her black t-shirt and dark wash jeans, she’s not going for a morning run. So, she’s probably heading to work. Likely in the service industry, considering her simple outfit and the early hour.

I’m not usually one to ponder career choices, but I find myself wondering if she’s content in her shabby little apartment with her low-paying job. A woman like Abigail should be dressed in silks and jewels, not practical cotton and jeans.

Once she’s mine, I’ll make sure to dress her up in a way that pleases me.

I shake off the strange thought and follow her down the street, keeping a careful distance so that she won’t notice me.

I’ve never kept a woman before. It’s never even crossed my mind. Not only do I get bored easily, but I know better than to risk forming a long-term relationship that might reveal my true nature over time.

A few nights with Abigail will surely be enough to sate my curiosity. And my lust.

My sleepless night wasn’t only due to anticipation over seeing her again; I’ve wrestled with a raging hard-on ever since she trembled against me in the shadowy corner of the bar.

In another strange choice, I didn’t slake my needs. Jerking off would have felt oddly like surrender. Defeat.

I will conquer Abigail, not the other way around. I won’t allow anyone to make me feel weak. Certainly not a fragile, submissive woman.

I’m thoroughly in control of this seduction. She’ll learn that soon enough.

We’ve only walked three blocks when she ducks into a small café. The lights are on, but the sign is still flipped to “closed”. I check my watch. It’s likely that the Sunny Side Café opens at seven. Possibly even later.

I harden my resolve. I’m not so desperate that I’ll barge in the moment they open.

Abigail will need me , not the other way around. She’ll beg and moan my name, and then I’ll finally be satisfied.

She’s disappeared into the back, so I can’t even see her through the large windows that provide a clear view into the café.

I roll the odd tension from my shoulders and saunter off down the street.

I’ll have to meet Meadows at our new premises by nine.

Our practice officially starts operating next week, and we need to make sure everything is in order.

We already have an impressive waitlist of patients, thanks to my partner’s local connections and our shared reputation that we built in Baltimore.

Now that I’ll have my own practice, I can be more discerning with my cases. And with my schedule.

I can make time for Abigail if I want to.

I smooth away my grimace at the errant thought. The woman is getting under my skin, and I’ve barely spent an hour with her.

Surely, a little more time in her company is all I need to prove to myself that she’s nothing special. Beautiful and beguiling, but not special.

She’ll be imperfectly human, just like every other person I’ve ever met: simple and easily manipulated. Easily exercising control over everyone around me does satisfy me, but the shallow interactions can be tedious at times.

I wander away from the café for a while before I stop in one of the only open shops, where I buy an insipid magazine about local interests. Then I find a park bench where I can sit to pass the time for an hour or so.

While I wait to approach my prey, I can at least learn a little more about my new home here in Charleston. My patients are gratified when I show interest in their small little lives. It’s irksome, but it’ll help grow the practice. I’ll earn even more money, be even more secure.

I don’t need my family’s fortune to live a life of luxury. The first few years of university were hard, but nothing will ever make me go begging for a handout from my father.

You’ll be back. My mother’s final, spiteful words echo through my mind. You can’t make it on your own, Daniel. You can’t embarrass the family like this. What will our friends say if you give up your title and run away to America like a pathetic coward who can’t face his duties?

I shake off the memory and redirect my focus to the article about an upcoming garden tour in Charleston’s historic districts.

I haven’t thought about that altercation with my mother in years.

It’s possible that Abigail’s obvious financial struggles are making me recall the years when I had to scrape by too; before I earned my medical degree and established my reputation as a skilled surgeon.

I manage to read another article about a nearby plantation before I think about the wad of one dollar bills Abigail pulled out of her wallet when she tried to pay for her cocktail last night.

I used to be frugal with my money too, when I had nothing more than a small stipend from my scholarship at Johns Hopkins.

Now, I’m more than wealthy enough to buy an expensive home in Harleston Village. I’ll never be poor again.

And as long as I choose to keep Abigail with me, she will want for nothing. I won’t be seen to neglect a woman who’s on my arm. I can provide for her, and I won’t allow anyone to think otherwise.

Clean up, Daniel. What will our friends think if they see you with bloody knuckles?

I hear my mother’s voice again. Always so concerned with appearances, not with why her ten-year-old son might have blood on his hands.

I crumple the magazine in my fists.

I loathe pretentious people who perform for the sake of others, but I can’t deny that I’ve been forced to live my life with my civilized mask firmly in place. I learned at a young age that I can’t get what I want if I let people see the monster inside; charm works much better than fear.

I gnash my teeth and toss the magazine in a public rubbish bin. These irritating thoughts aren’t something I often contemplate, and I don’t know why they’re troubling me now.

Must be the sleepless night messing with my usual composure.

I run a hand over my hair to smooth it into a neater style and stride towards the café. It’s just past eight AM now. Surely, they’ll be open.

The glass door isn’t locked, so I’m able to stride into the Sunny Side Café with smooth confidence.

Abigail is almost entirely hidden behind the espresso machine that dominates the end of the counter; only the top of her brunette head and the barest hint of delicately arched brows are visible.

Is she shy even in her workplace? Last night, I surmised that she’s a bit anxious in social situations. I’d enjoyed riding that edge, making her nervous while drawing out her forbidden lust.

“Good morning! How are you?”

I blink and redirect my attention to the pretty woman behind the register. Her name badge says Stacy. She must be Abigail’s friend, the one they couldn’t find at the bar last night when Franklin so rudely dragged my prey away from me.

My drunken prey.

I smother a frown as I remember Abigail’s slurred speech and the way she’d leaned on her male friend for support.

Even if he hadn’t taken her out of the bar to look for Stacy, I wouldn’t have been able to satisfy my lust last night. Not when Abigail was intoxicated.

It would’ve been much easier to track her down if we’d exchanged numbers, though. Less risky than following her.

I arrange my features into my usual charming smile and sharpen my focus. My prey is within my sights once again. She won’t escape this time.

“I’m well, thank you,” I say in response to Stacy’s inane question. This Carolina pretense at politeness will take some getting used to.

Although, looking into Stacy’s large brown eyes, she does seem more interested in me than rote niceties. I’m used to attention from women, but there’s only one that I want to captivate now.

“What can I get for you?” Stacy’s voice drops slightly deeper, an invitation rather than simply taking my order.

I keep my smile in place but don’t allow it to tilt in anticipation of a flirtation. Usually, I’d enjoy toying with this woman. In a slew of social interactions that are so often mundane, making people flustered so that they’ll trip over themselves to please me is mildly amusing.

“I’ll have an Americano, please.” My tone is warm and friendly, but nothing more.

Abigail probably wouldn’t like it if I were rude to Stacy; they’re friends, after all.

“What’s your name?”

I pause for a moment and quirk a brow at Stacy. She’s being quite forward, and I’m here for Abigail.

“For your cup,” she explains when I don’t answer right away.

I don’t fully buy it, but I suppose it’s probably common practice at their café to write names on cups to keep track of orders.

“Dane,” I introduce myself.

I can’t stop my gaze from cutting toward the espresso machine, but Abigail doesn’t appear when I say my name.

“You don’t sound like you’re from around here,” Stacy observes, leaning toward me slightly.

“I’m not.” I suppress a sigh. My English accent often elicits this comment, and I’m getting impatient to speak to Abigail.

The sound of my voice doesn’t seem to have attracted her attention. She liked my accent when we spoke last night. Why isn’t she turning to greet me?

I anticipate her slight surprise at this “chance” second meeting: the way those pretty rosebud lips will part on a little intake of breath, and her remarkable aquamarine eyes will widen.

Maybe she’s shyer than I thought. And she’s sober now, so that might make her even more reticent to approach me. Is she embarrassed at how inebriated she was?

Curiosity consumes me. I forget to continue my polite conversation with Stacy and prowl down the length of the bar.

Abigail appears in profile. Her lips are slightly pursed as she focuses so intently on pouring out latte art that she doesn’t seem aware of my presence.

Those lovely eyes are fixed on the steamed milk, but even from a side view, the light catches in the aqua pools, illuminating them like the Mediterranean Sea on a sunny day.