It scared him. This driving call to know her. Know not only her body, but her soul.
Cursing under his breath, he stopped.
The wind whipped around him in a cold embrace.
Her little temper tantrum in the kitchen had only whetted his appetite to take her body, soothe her worries. Without realizing the danger, he’d succumbed to her lure once again. Hard and hot and ready. When she’d stepped toward him, every inch of his skin had turned to flames. His blood had blazed in him. His lust had seared his control to a crisp.
Then she’d rejected him.
The burn had immediately flashed to fury. A fury as virulent as his lust.
The fury kept roiling around inside him. Mixed with the driving, pounding need to take her. Imprint himself into her. Drive everything from her heart and head except him.
He was in deep trouble.
Clasping his hands before him, he rocked on his heels.
The words he’d spilled in front of her were all because of this spontaneous combustion in him. The safe, closed coffin he’d come to rely on had blasted open and out poured his words, his pain, his memories.
All for her inspection and her consumption. Her use.
The fear had quickly followed, hadn’t it? The fear he’d learned as a kid, as a stupid young lover, had rolled through him like a wave of remembered pain and hate. It had twisted inside him like a demonic force.
He’d hurt her.
A lance of pure agony cut into him. A whoosh of breath escaped him.
Hurt had been in her eyes. The night-blue had turned dark with midnight torment. Despite this, his words had kept coming. He’d kept lashing her, kept whipping her with his contempt and fury. It had rolled from him without any thought other than to hurt her for getting too close.
Her eyes had welled with tears the last moment they’d been together, with no light left in them. Only tears and stark pain.
The howl stuck in his throat. Breathing through his nostrils, he choked it down.
The light in her eyes when they’d lain together was gone. For good, surely. He’d very effectively snuffed it purposefully.
This was for the best. For both of them.
She needed to recognize the reality of the situation. There was nothing between them. Nothing but a deal. It would all be over in a few short days. She’d be free to walk out his door and his life. Forever.
The howl escalated inside him. It became a shriek. Then a scream.
* * *
Splashing paint on a canvas while tears splashed on her cheeks was a new experience. Maybe it would add to her art, this level of anguish. Maybe the pain would somehow come out of her and into the painting and she’d be left free to feel…
Nothing.
It wasn’t working so far, still a girl had to persevere. The conversation with him that had ended minutes ago would be used to fuel her art, not her pain.
She was a fighter and she’d fight, wrestle, cudgel her useless love into submission.
The black slash of paint contrasted nicely with the bold red she’d splattered on before. The colors matched her mood—stark and severe. Yet it didn’t match the original idea she’d had for this piece. Of a woman being held by a man with love.
Which was all to the good, she told herself as she wiped away her tears. That painting was a farce. A total farce.
Another slash of black whipped across the canvas, destroying the original.
She was a fool, but she’d survive. She’d fallen in love with a man who was so wounded by his past he’d lost his soul. So what? It wasn’t as if other women hadn’t done the same and moved past it. She wasn’t going to be like her mum and lose herself in drugs and other men’s arms because the man she loved didn’t love her. Nope. Never.
Free of him forever. Soon she would be and she should be glad. She would be glad.
Everything would be good. She’d take herself off, find another place, keep painting. Eight more days and she’d be out of this cold prison, out from Marcus La Rocca’s control, out from his protection.
Her hand stuttered to a stop. The black paint dribbled down, soaking into her jumper.
The whisper of fear curled in her stomach.
Staring at the desolate painting before her, Darcy tightened her jaw. If the demon from her past appeared—and it was highly likely he would—she’d handle it somehow. She didn’t need La Rocca’s help or protection. She didn’t need him for anything.
The door slammed open.
She jerked around, her blood racing.
Marcus stood in the entryway, his clothes wet and sticking to every muscle along his shoulders and chest. Rivulets of water streaked his cheeks. His eyes blazed.
She took a step back.
“No.” His voice filled the room with fierce emotion.
“I don’t know what you want—”
“I want you.”