Revenge.
Nothing more.
I needed to remember that before this entire situation blew up in my face.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Ariana
I braced my palms on the edge of the kitchen counter and leaned my forehead against the wood grain of the cabinet. My skin still buzzed, heat simmering under the surface like an ember refusing to die out.
What the hell was wrong with me?
Henry Fontaine stole me and dropped me into this remote purgatory with little explanation. Whether I felt safer with him than I did with Victor didn’t change the reality of it. He’d brought me here and hidden me away.
And yet when I had the chance, when he was unconscious and completely vulnerable, I didn’t run.
I cleaned him up. Took care of him. Watched over him.
And I just almost let him kiss me.
Worse, I’dwantedhim to kiss me.
I stood there like some wide-eyed teenager who’d never been kissed, leaning into him like he was gravity and I couldn’t wait to fall.
I blew out a long breath, trying to expel the fire still scalding my veins. Trying to focus on something other than how close Henry’s lips were to mine mere seconds ago.
I turned to the stove and lifted the lid off the pot. A fragrant steam rolled out — rich tomato, earthy basil, and salty parmesan. My stomach rumbled, but food was the last thing on my mind.
This had to be a trauma bond. Or Stockholm syndrome. Or whatever they called it when a woman started craving her captor’s mouth on hers. Which was why the best thing I could do was put space between us, especially now that he looked steadier than earlier this morning.
Grabbing a wooden spoon, I stirred the creamy tomato soup and was about to taste it when I felt a shift in the air that told me I was no longer alone.
I didn’t need to turn around.
Didn’t need to listen for his limping footfalls.
I could physically feel Henry getting closer, the hairs on my nape standing on end.
“Ariana…”
I squeezed my eyes shut at the rough timbre in his voice. But there was a softness I hadn’t heard before. One I wasn’t sure how to handle.
“Yes?” I whirled around and faced him, pretending I was unaffected by his presence.
“What almost happened back there…” He gestured toward the bathroom. “I didn’t mean to?—”
“It’s fine,” I interjected, my voice not sounding like my own. “You just said it yourself. Italmosthappened. It didn’t actually happen. So there’s nothing to discuss.” I spun around, continuing to stir the soup, although it was completely unnecessary.
“Ariana,” he sighed.
“You have a head injury,” I cut in, not looking at him. “Your judgment is compromised. Mine is, too, considering I’ve barelyslept more than a few minutes at a time over the past twenty-four hours.”
He didn’t respond right away, the silence bearing down on me. I could feel the weight of what hewantedto say. A part of me wanted him to push back. Argue. Tell me it wasn’t just the head injury. That he couldn’t remember ever wanting to kiss someone as desperately as he wanted to kiss me.
He didn’t. Instead, he pushed out a long sigh. “Yeah. I guess you’re right.”
Relief and disappointment tangled in my chest. I gave him a tight-lipped smile before looking away again.
