“What?”
The raspy caress of her voice has my dick hardening between us.
“You were whimpering in your sleep.”
“I was? Sorry,” she says groggily. “It happens sometimes.”
“It does? Why would you cry in your sleep?”
“Huh?”
I realize she’s still not properly awake, so I give her one more little shake. “Danika, why do you cry in your sleep sometimes?” It’s none of my damn business. There is no good reason on God’s green earth for me to need to know why this woman cries, yet I can’t help myself. I need to know.
Finally, she comes to, stiffening as reality sets in. “What? No, I don’t cry in my sleep. Why would I do that?”
“Don’t know. You’re the one who said it happens sometimes.”
She lets out an awkward chuckle. “I was probably still asleep. There’s no telling.”
I don’t believe her, though I’m not sure why or what part bothers me. Is it the crying itself or the knowledge of the crying that she doesn’t want to admit to? Why try to lie about it when Iclearly heard her? And what was she dreaming about that made her cry in the first place?
A part of me wants to suss out the truth, but there could be any number of causes, including being cuffed to a bed with the man who held her at gunpoint. Probably, I should just leave her the fuck alone—we’d both be better off if I did.
I huff and lower my head back to the pillow, then reflexively pull Danika closer as if I hadn’t just chided myself to keep my distance. I can’t seem to help myself where she’s concerned. I tell myself one thing, then do the complete opposite.
I wish I could set my curiosity on fire until nothing is left but ash. Yet when given the chance, I find myself inhaling her scent—sweet berries and total anarchy. This woman has the potential to be world-ending. She’ll turn my life inside out until it’s unrecognizable, and I’m so fucking fixated already that I’ll probably thank her for it.
When I feel compulsion sink its teeth into me, I have to decide early on whether I plan to own it or fight it. Do I want to live the rest of my life resisting the constant craving, or do I embrace the trigger and resulting compulsion as a new fixture in my world?
I could kick Danika out of the apartment the moment we unlock the cuffs and potentially free myself from a lifelong addiction.
I could, in theory.
But it would take an enormous effort, considering I haven’t known her for twenty-four hours, and I can’t seem to let her stray even a few inches from me in the bed.
If I’m unwilling or unable to fight the impulse, then that only leaves one other option.
I would have to own it and own her in the process.
The sun is alreadybright in the sky when I wake, which is a new experience for me. I’m always up before sunrise.Always.
My internal clock is infallible—or so I thought.
Danika is like an electromagnetic pulse disrupting even the most finely tuned device with her presence. She doesn’t even have to try. The air around her sparks and flickers with mischief. Even now, something as simple as looking at the clock behind me creates inner conflict because I don’t want to wake her by moving. She broke into my house and got us locked up together—why the hell does it matter if I wake her? It shouldn’t. It doesn’t.
So why am I not moving when I desperately want to know the time?
This is bad.
I need to at least make an effort so that I know I tried to keep my world from crumbling. There’s a big difference between admitting defeat after fighting an uphill battle and waving the white flag before shots are even fired. Am I really willing to cave so easily?
I like my life. I like doing exactly as I please and not having to take anyone else into consideration. If I want to eat the same goddamn thing for breakfast every day of my life, there’s no one to stop me. Living alone means no unnecessary clutter, no television or music when I want quiet, and no need to worry about the occasional bloodstain on my clothes after an eventful day of work.
Allowing a woman into my world would end all of that. It would be a monumental shift, and I can tell by the knot in my gut that I’m not yet ready to embrace that change.
Time to get my head out of my ass and grow a pair.
I force myself to twist away from Danika and look at the clock on the nightstand behind me. 8:30. It’s even later than I expected. Grace is supposed to be here by nine.
