Page 8 of Redemption (Favorite Malady Duet #2)

DANE

Three Months Ago

I ’ve visited the café every morning for a week, and Abigail is simply polite to me, as though I’m like every other customer.

It’s frustrating.

Infuriating.

So, I find myself strolling through her neighborhood after the sun sets. She won’t even look at me when I’m at the café. I must’ve thoroughly intimidated her when I completely misjudged the situation. I’d been overly familiar after our meeting at the bar, and she hadn’t remembered me at all.

I can’t harass her while she’s at work; that’ll only raise more red flags.

But now that I’m a regular at the café, I can’t approach her elsewhere without seeming like I’m stalking her. I’d only spook her even more.

I force my clenched jaw to loosen.

This woman is maddening, but the more difficult it is to pursue her, the more I crave to conquer her.

I’ve never been evaded by a woman before. No one has wanted to evade me.

But Abigail is a stubborn exception in so many ways.

I will learn her secrets, and then she will submit to me. Once she surrenders, I’ll be able to move on from this dangerous fixation.

I shouldn’t be here. It’s risky to follow her home.

And I never put myself at risk. I refuse to do anything foolish that might end with me behind bars. I’ll never be caged.

I’m too smart for that.

I glance around the deserted street. This isn’t the nicest neighborhood, but it’s quiet.

Probably because no one seems to want to live in the dilapidated houses that surround her ramshackle apartment building. There’s small, narrow house directly across the street. The powder blue paint on the exterior is peeling, and it’s dark inside. No one’s home.

The garden is overgrown, and that suits my desires. I duck beneath unruly foliage and push open the rusty gate. Within less than a minute, I settle into the shadows provided by the azalea and hydrangea bushes that haven’t been pruned in years.

Abigail’s window is a yellow rectangle shining through the night. At this distance, I can see her slim form moving around her cramped living room. She’s setting up an easel.

Curiosity nips at me, an insistent bite.

So, my pretty prey is an artist. I’m not surprised to learn that she has a creative streak.

Her quirky purple curl and the whimsical badges I’ve noted on her work apron indicate a playful energy that defies stricter social norms for a woman of her age.

Her unicorn pin had surprised me when I noted it on my second visit to the café, but I’ve since decided that I find it charming.

The smiling iced coffee and frowning broccoli are a bit odder, but her quirkiness makes more sense now that I see her with a paintbrush in her delicate hand.

Despite her perfectly polite demeanor and sunny smiles, Abigail isn’t a conformist. She marches to the beat of her own drum. Maybe that’s why I’m having such a difficult time pinning her down.

If I can just learn what makes her tick, she’ll be in my bed, and this strange new fixation will finally be satisfied.

Her hand moves in small, elegant strokes as she works with fluidity but precision. I can only see the back of her brunette head from this angle, but I have a clear view of her canvas.

She’s too far away for me to make out the details of her painting. For a while, I’m content to simply watch her graceful, minute movements as she works. But the longer she continues, the more I crave to know what absorbs her attention so completely.

I retrieve my phone from my pocket and open the camera in an attempt to zoom in on her art. But the lighting is too imbalanced at this distance for me to make out more than a navy-blue blur on her canvas.

I frown and tuck my phone back in my pocket.

If I could learn more about her art, I might be able to capture her attention when we make small talk at the café.

I resolve that I have to know the subject of her painting. I’ll learn Abigail’s secrets, and she will submit to me.

No one seems to live in the powder blue house across the street from Abigail’s apartment.

I took some time to peer into the darkened windows before settling into the shadows of the overgrown garden.

The house is devoid of furnishings, and the peeling wallpaper inside is in even worse condition than the exterior paint.

It’s a convenient arrangement for me; I can watch my prey without concern about being interrupted.

After my frustration last night, I came prepared. I lean back in the rickety garden chair and lift the binoculars I purchased this afternoon.

The back of Abigail’s head appears in sharp relief, brunette waves shining in the golden light cast by her cheap standing lamps.

Her voluminous hair is tamed into a loose braid, and the pretty amethyst streak weaves through the darker locks.

I want to wrap that braid around my fist and use it to anchor her to me while I plunder her lush mouth.

Her canvas is still propped up on the easel in the middle of her living room, but she’s sitting on her couch now. Some maddened urge to keep my focus on her prevents me from shifting my attention to the painting for a full minute.

But she’s on her laptop, probably browsing social media or something equally mundane. I’d much prefer to see her paint again, especially now that I’m equipped to view her art properly.

I blow out a sigh and focus on the unfinished painting instead.

It’s a stunning impressionist landscape, depicting a pristine beach before an incoming storm.

The sand is captured in textured strokes of pale yellow, indicating a sunny day before the encroaching tempest. At the horizon, turbulent, dark navy waves surge, so at odds with the peaceful beach.

I wonder if this is a scene she’s painting from memory, or if it’s an embellishment.

I’ve never seen a storm like it.

But then again, I’ve never really paid much attention to the natural world.

I prefer to spend my time amongst people rather than pondering my surroundings in solitude.

I can control people, not the weather. So, nature doesn’t interest me much.

It’s just a backdrop, scenery for the psychological games that keep me amused.

But there’s something compelling about Abigail’s art. I can’t quite put my finger on why I’m still staring at the painting when I could be watching her instead.

I shake off the odd compulsion to continue studying the stormy sea and focus on her braided hair again.

The shade of dark purple is truly lovely against her brunette locks.

I admire the way it weaves through her thick waves, how the heavy braid is loose enough to conceal most of her nape.

I get the smallest glimpse of bare skin where her neck meets her shoulder, which is covered by her soft black work shirt.

She hasn’t bothered to change after finishing her shift; she’s gone straight to her laptop.

Why isn’t she painting?

I’m scowling in the darkness, and I smooth away the unbidden expression of displeasure.

I’m losing control around her, and even if no one is here to see it, my cheeks still flush with a strange heat.

I definitely don’t like the sensation, so I choose to ignore this particular new feeling she’s eliciting.

I’ll have her under my control soon enough.

What is she so absorbed with at her laptop?

I try to focus the binoculars on her screen, but whatever she’s viewing is too bright and small for me to make out more than a white blur. Her fingers fly over the keyboard.

She’s typing something, and the deft, rapid strokes of her delicate fingers fascinate me almost as much as the strokes of her paintbrush.

I’m not sure how long I indulge myself in watching her elegant hands before she puts her laptop away.

When she stands up from where she was seated on the couch, she turns toward her bedroom rather than her canvas.

I can see her in profile now, and her porcelain cheek is flushed a gorgeous shade of pink.

It reminds me of the alluring shade of her blush when we first met at the bar last week.

What was she writing that has her cheeks turning pink?

I’m burning for answers, but all I’m met with is darkness when she turns off the lights. She disappears into her bedroom. I can’t see into it because this window only provides me a view into her living room.

I could prowl around her building to find out what she’s doing now, but that would be even riskier than watching her from this shadowed garden. I’d be out in the open, and one of her neighbors might see me peering into her window.

I force my jaw to unclench and put the binoculars away. I’ll come back tomorrow night. I have to know more.

She’s back at her easel, but the canvas is darker tonight. I had to stay at work later than I would’ve liked, so she’s already deeply absorbed in her art by the time I finally settle into the rickety garden chair.

I’d anticipated watching her storm-tossed sea develop into a towering tempest, but she seems to have a different subject in mind tonight.

Heavy strokes of midnight black darken the edges of the canvas, and all of the light she captures with her paintbrush is focused on the center of her painting.

Shadows cling to creamy flesh, as though they’re drawing her subject deeper into their forbidden embrace.

They curl around a slender neck like tendrils of smoke, and the distinctly feminine chin is tipped back as though to welcome the dark claim.

The knife at her subject’s throat glints dully, a charcoal gray that’s almost forged from the shadows that caress their victim.

Rosebud lips are parted on a gasp that’s undeniably erotic. And just at the bottom edge of the painting, two peaked, pink nipples beg for attention.

My teeth clench hard enough to make my jaw ache, and my cock stiffens to the point of discomfort in the confines of my jeans.

I was right to think that Abigail’s desires are a perfect match for my own. She secretly fantasizes about being threatened and forced to experience transcendent pleasure.

I’ve never allowed myself to truly frighten a woman. There are certain parameters I have to operate within to fit social norms, even in more deviant subcultures. Those boundaries have irked me in the past, but now, they feel like the iron bars of a cage that’s far too small to contain me.

What would it be like to throw off those invisible constraints and truly unleash myself upon her? Would she welcome the thrill of this darkest game?

I have no desire to harm my pretty prey; on the contrary, I’ll do anything to shield her so that she’ll welcome me back into her body again and again.

I know now that a few nights with this woman won’t be enough.

The thought makes something slither down my spine.

Apprehension?

If I allow my mask to drop around Abigail, my secrets will be exposed. I’ll put myself at risk.

If I push her too far, she might scream in horror when I show her my true self. I could lose everything I’ve worked so hard for these last fifteen years: my wealth, my reputation, my freedom.

The temptation to indulge in this most forbidden connection is almost enough to drive me to madness, but I can’t give in. I can’t take on that risk.

Yet.

Until I know for sure that Abigail won’t be repulsed by my crueler advances, I have to be patient. I can watch her. Study her.

And when it comes to my studies, I’ve always excelled. I have an eye for detail and an excellent memory.

Abigail will be my greatest conquest, and I’ll devote the time and effort necessary to get what I want: her, in my bed, screaming my name.

I’ve never faced such a thrilling challenge in my life, and the prospect makes intense pleasure gather at the base of my spine. The temptation of her sensual painting is almost enough to make me come undone without the touch of her delicate hand.

I take a breath and master the bizarre urge to surrender to the insistent pleasure. I’m not going to come in my pants when Abigail is out of my reach.

She’s not in control of this seduction. I am.

She just doesn’t know it yet.