I almost laugh at that, since it’s the simplest part of all. “You’re an Enforcer. Enforce.”
If I didn’t know better, I’d swear I saw Dami smile. But still he paces.
“Well?” I ask at last. I’m getting tired again, and cranky like a toddler with it. But I’m feeling a hell of a lot better than I did down there in the basement, since those protein shakes—despite tasting like depression made liquid—are actually helping.
“I’ll think about it,” he says. “I need a shower.”
He locks the bathroom door. If he hadn’t, I wonder if I’d try to press the advantage I have right now and go in after him, stretch my fledgling seduction skills a little more.
I got sick at the right time. It wasn’t pleasant, no. But it was useful, since here I am, back in his bed again. I’d rather not be put back in that basement, so I’ll need to be more careful in the future.
But when he comes out and heads for the bedroom door to lock it, tucking the damn key into the briefs he’s put on, I immediately forget my resolution. There’s something about Damiano Orsini that just makes me enjoy needling him.
“Where are you sleeping tonight, Dami? Bed’s taken.”
He stands next to it, looking down at me. “Shut up and move over.”
I blink up at him, taken aback despite myself. The whole time I’ve been recovering here, I’ve been sleeping alone. I thought that one-off co-sleeping after the opera attack was unlikely to happen again. “Really?”
“You think I’m giving up my fucking bed for you?” he growls. “Move over.”
I suppose I should consider myself lucky he’s not chaining me to the headboard. I shuffle over awkwardly until he’s satisfied, then snuggle down and turn my back on him, my heart beating hard. The light goes out, leaving the room in total blackness, since the metal shutters are still down over the windows, and there are no electronics in the bedroom to give ambient light.
I hear him get into the bed, the mattress dipping under his considerable size so that I find myself rolling back into him despite myself.
His arm goes around me. “You’re not going anywhere tonight, little prince,” he says, gripping me tight.
I say nothing, just lie there tense and wide awake.
But I must have fallen asleep, because I wake to his powerful grip tightening andtighteningaround me, crushing me hard enough that I fear asphyxiation. “Hey,” I wheeze, trying to wriggle my way out. It’s no use, and he’s talking, muttering?—
He’s asleep. He’s asleep and dreaming, a bad dream. A terrible dream, based on the labored breathing and the plaintive note in his mumbling non-words.
“Dami,” I get out, but it’s no use. He’s deep in his nightmare. So I do the only thing I can, and kick him, hard.
He jerks awake, arm tightening one more excruciating fraction before it relaxes, and I suck in a deep lungful of oxygen. “JesusChrist,” I pant. “It was just a dream, Dami. Just a dream.”
He seems to hear me, because he gives a long sigh of what sounds like relief, and rolls onto his back, leaving me feeling strangely cold and unmoored. I guess I got used to the hot iron band encircling me.
I turn over in the bed and curl up close again, wishing I could see his face. I can’t see anything at all, only hear his still-ragged breathing. “What were you dreaming?”
“Don’t remember,” he mutters.
Without getting distracted by trying to read his face, I hear the lie much more clearly in his voice. We made a deal about that. But I’m not going to push. I’m not sure Iwantto know what nightmares a Giuliano Enforcer might suffer. He’s certainly willing enough to bring them into the waking world.
I reach out and slide a hand over his shoulder. He doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t tell me to fuck off. Just keeps breathing, trying to regulate.
I can’t see his face. Can’t read the warning signs I’ve learned to watch for. All I have is touch—the heat of his skin, the tension in his muscles, the way his breathing changes when my fingers trace along his collarbone.
His breath catches. Then his hand covers mine, pressing it flat against his chest. I feel his heartbeat, still too fast from whatever horror chased him through sleep.
Neither of us moves. Neither of us speaks.
And then his hand slides up my arm, finds my jaw, tilts my face toward his even though we can’t see each other. “This won’t mean anything,” he says roughly.
“I know.”
“I still hate you.”