Uncrossing my arms, I move closer. “Is that what you were doing outside on the balcony? Making important decisions?”
She takes a step back. “You saw me?”
“You should’ve dressed warmer. The wind is cold.”
“You’re one to talk. I saw you jumping off that cliff in nothing but your birthday suit.”
“Is your concern for the cold, the jump, or the fact that I was naked?”
“None.” She backtracks when I advance another step. “I’m not concerned about you.”
“No? Then why do you behave like you are?”
“The only thing I’m concerned about is what happens to me if you die.”
Ah. That sours my mood a little, not that I could’ve expected differently. “Right. You should be since I have your passport, not to mention that you’ll be given to Alexis.”
The pink disappears from her cheeks.
“You don’t have to worry your pretty little mind over things like that. I’m not planning on dying soon, and I’m glad we can put the fights aside.” I cup her cheek. I’m going to figure her out, this clever little daisy. “I meant what I said. You can be happy here.”
She nods. “Okay.”
“What made you change your mind?” Jokingly, I add, “Seeing me jump off a cliff?” Had I known it would be this easy, I’d have done it sooner.
She looks away. “The way I behaved reminded me too much of my father.”
Gripping her chin, I turn her face back to me. “The way you behaved how?”
She averts her eyes. “When I slapped you.”
I don’t like where this is going. “What did your father do, Zoe?”
“He was violent.”
My back goes rigid. “With you?”
“Mostly with my mother and Damian, but he broke things, and it scared me.”
I try to picture Zoe as a child, a little girl, scared and defenseless, and I don’t like it. I don’t fucking like it one bit. I admire her for fighting her genes, for wanting to be better. I sure as hell didn’t manage.
“I see.” I drop my hand. “Do I remind you of your father?”
She lifts her gaze back to mine. “No.” Just as my spine relaxes, a sliver of fear creeps into her tone. “You’re in a different league. My father wasn’t a tenth of what you are.”
She fears me more. I both hate and love it. I can’t decide which feeling I want to embrace. Just when I thought I almost had her figured out she confuses me again. Confused isn’t something I’ve ever been. I don’t like it.
Staring at her big, frightened eyes, I move even closer, my body shadowing hers. I want her. I want her fear and pleasure. I want her happiness and submission. I want to take her right here on the stairs. I barely manage to grit out, “Go to bed.”
She doesn’t let me tell her twice. She runs up the stairs like a mouse fleeing from a cat. I stand at the bottom, staring after her while mulling over her words and dissecting my feelings. Making sense of thoughts and sensations is a logical process. I don’t trust my heart. I only trust my mind.
I suppose what she said about being worse than her father is true. I’ve broken a lot more than material things. There’s more blood on my soul than on the hands of a soldier. I suppose I do scare children, and puppies, and pretty little innocent flowers, but I’m neither coward nor fool. Her father was a coward for terrorizing his own daughter and a fool for not seeing the pure, perfect girl right under his eyes.
An insight hits me. Zoe grew up with violence. However wrong that is, she should be used to it, at least to an extent. What I am should scare her, but it shouldn’t surprise her. She shouldn’t be as innocent as she is. She avoided reality. The only means she had of escaping a traumatic childhood was hiding in herself by going someplace else in her head. That’s why Zoe is a dreamer. That’s why she’s a romantic. Her reality was a shithole, but she desperately held out for cupids and happily-ever-after. That’s why she’s a princess, down to the way she dresses.
Warfare is an art. It requires a certain finesse. There’s little finesse in slaying your enemy by cutting off his head. It’s much more challenging to turn him into an ally. It’s much more rewarding to have your enemy worship at your feet. This new insight tells me exactly what my strategy with Zoe should be. I’m not going to be her father. I won’t allow her to live in her head where she can hide from me. In the art of warfare, it’s crucial to know your enemy’s vulnerability. Now that I know hers, I’ll fill that gap. I’ll give her what she most wants. Before her time here is up, she’ll be eating out of my hand. When the time comes to set her free, she’ll beg me to stay. Yes, I like this outcome much better than keeping her chained with threats. My chest heats just thinking about it. My cock hardens at the challenge.
My own daisy, in a vase on my table. I didn’t steal it from someone’s garden. It was growing wild on the pavement, right there for the taking.
Chapter 17
Zoe
Persistent shaking pulls me from my sleep. I fight it, but I can’t ignore the deep voice or the French accent. I wake with a gasp when I remember where I am.
“Easy, Zoe.” Maxime brushes a hand over my shoulder. “You have to wake up. We have an appointment in Marseille.”
Rubbing my eyes, I turn to face him. He sits on the edge of the bed, dressed in a dark suit. His hair is still damp from his shower. The smell of winter hangs like a faint cloud around him, but it’s pierced with the summery fragrance of roses. A cup of steaming tea stands on the nightstand.
“I brought you an infusion,” he says. “Fran can make you coffee if you prefer. Breakfast is waiting downstairs.”
“Thank you,” I say uncertainly, my manners still intact while I’m half asleep.
“You’re welcome.” He takes my hand and kisses the back, then puts something in my palm.
I lift my hand and stare at the cellphone.
“My number is programmed.” He gets to his feet. “Come down when you’re ready. We’re leaving in thirty minutes.”
I only get to my senses when he’s gone. Maxime had opened the curtains. The sky outside is still dark, dawn barely breaking through a thick layer of clouds. I look at the telephone screen again. The time says it’s eight o’clock.
Wait. I have a phone.
Shooting upright, I type in the number for the correctional service where Damian is held and press dial. A message comes on in English, announcing I don’t have access to the service. I check the settings. Of course. I can only dial Maxime’s number. I didn’t expect anything different, but my shoulders sag in disappointment.
Dejected, I reach for the tea on the nightstand. Folding my hands around the cup, I inhale the fragrant herbal tea. It smells of roses and raspberries, the same tea Maxime served me in Venice. I take a sip. It’s a delicious blend. The brew warms and somewhat fortifies me.
Memories of last night’s discussion turn in my head as I shower and change into a pair of slacks and a cashmere sweater with frilly sleeves that have been neatly arranged in the dressing room. Maxime must’ve unpacked the suitcase either last night or this morning. I thankfully fell asleep before he came to bed. I wasn’t going to unpack. Putting the clothes he’d bought for me in his closet doesn’t only feel wrong, but also way too final. After putting on a pair of ankle boots, I go downstairs where a breakfast of croissants and orange juice is set out in the dining room. Maxime is seated at the table, reading something on his phone. Judging by the pastry flakes in his plate, he’s already eaten.