Chapter 3

My fingers closed around the knife.

I did not even realise I had picked it up until the handle pressed into my palm.

I kept looking at Damien.

He was still standing there, between me and the door, watching me with that same irritating expression he had been wearing all morning, like nothing in this room could possibly surprise him and I was just another problem he would deal with when he got bored.

His eyes dropped to my hand. Then back to my face.

That was it. There wasn't even any panic or sudden movement.

Nothing.

I looked down at the knife.

It was just a stupid little room-service knife, probably sitting there because rich people apparently needed knives beside their bars at all times, and here I was holding it like I had suddenly become some criminal mastermind.

I almost laughed. This was ridiculous.

I was not going to stab him. I only needed him to move.

That was all.

I shifted the knife in my hand.

Damien watched.

“You're really going to stand there?”

His gaze stayed on mine.

“You should put that down.”

The calmness in his voice irritated me so badly that my fingers tightened around the handle.

“Why?”

“Because you don't know what you're doing.”

There was no fear in his face which made me angry so I stepped closer.

He did not move.

The blade hung beside my thigh, almost hidden by my body.

“Move.”

“No.”

I stared at him.

He actually looked bored.

I had a knife in my hand and this man looked bored.

What the hell was wrong with him?

My heart was beating too hard, my legs were still aching from last night, my neck was burning beneath the mark he had left there, and I was standing barefoot in an expensive hotel room trying to figure out how to get away from a man who seemed to have forgotten that women were allowed to leave his bed.

I raised the knife slightly and his eyes followed it, but still nothing.

“You're not scared?”

His jaw tightened slightly.

“Of that?”

I looked at the blade.

Then at him.

Something about the way he said it made heat crawl up my neck.

I should have put it down. Instead, I stepped forward.

Damien stayed where he was. I really fucking hated that my hand was shaking.

Damien expression changed slightly. Something closer to impatience.

“Ava.”

My name in his mouth made me look up.

“What?”

“Don't.”

That was all he said, and somehow it annoyed me more than everything else.

I stepped closer. He reached for my wrist. I jerked away.

His hand missed, then he knife moved with me.

His eyes dropped to it again, and this time I saw the smallest flicker of irritation cross his face, as though I was being difficult rather than dangerous.

That was when I stopped thinking.

I moved.

I just shoved forward because I wanted him away from the door, because I wanted out, because I was angry and tired and scared and too damn stubborn to stand there begging a man I had slept with for permission to leave.

The blade slipped into his side.

Barely. Just a shallow thrust that I felt it catch, then stop.

My hand froze. So did his.

For a second, Damien looked down.

The knife was still in my hand.Still inside him.

His fingers were around my wrist. Neither of us moved. Then his eyes lifted.

Something was wrong.

I knew it before he said anything. His face had gone completely still.

“What…”

His voice broke as he looked down again.

Blood appeared around the blade.

Then more.

A lot more.

It soaked into his shirt almost immediately, spreading far beyond the tiny place where the knife had entered.

My mouth went dry.

I had barely stabbed him.

I knew I had barely stabbed him.

So why the hell was he bleeding like that?

Damien's fingers tightened around my wrist.

“Take it out.”

I stared at him.

“What?”

“The knife.”

His voice was rough now.

He tried to pull away from it himself, but the movement made his whole body jerk.

A sharp breath tore through his teeth.

His free hand flew to the wound. He pressed down. Blood pushed between his fingers.

His eyes widened. I had never seen that face on him.

He looked down at his hand as though it belonged to somebody else.

“Damien?”

He looked at me.

“Get it out.”

I tried.

My fingers tightened around the handle. The moment I moved the knife, his body buckled.

He made a sound that scared the shit out of me.

The knife stayed where it was refusing to pull out.

Damien caught my wrist before I could step away.

“Don't.”

His breathing had changed.

Every breath came harder than the one before it, his shoulders pulling sharply as he fought for air, and the calm bastard who had spent the last hour looking at me like I was a mildly irritating woman had disappeared.

“It’s not getting out.”

“No shit.”

The words came through clenched teeth.

I stared at him. He looked furious now.

“I barely touched you.”

His eyes snapped to mine.

“You call that barely touching me?”

“I didn't mean…”

Another violent cough cut me off.

Damien bent forward. Then blood hit the floor which made me stopped breathing.

He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and stared at the blood smeared across his skin.

“What the fuck?”

He said it like he was asking himself.

Then he looked at me.

“What did you do?”

“I stabbed you.”

His grip on my wrist tightened until my fingers went numb.

“I mean what did you do to me?”

I stared at him.

“I don't know.”

His eyes searched my face.

“You don't know?”

“I didn't do anything except stab you.”

“You're lying.”

“I am not fucking lying.”

He tried to stand but his leg shook.

He caught himself against the edge of the table, but his hand slipped because it was wet with his own blood.

He dropped to one knee.

I gasped.

“Damien.”

He looked up at me immediately.

His face was pale now, his hair falling across his forehead, his hand still clamped over the wound.

The blood would not stop.

It should have.

It should have slowed down.

Instead, the edges of the wound moved beneath his fingers.

I saw the skin pull together.

My stomach twisted. For one second, I thought it was healing.

Then it tore open again.

Damien sucked in a sharp breath.

His eyes dropped to the wound.

“What the hell…”

He touched the skin carefully. His fingers came away red.

“No.”

I stared at him.

He pressed his palm against the injury again, harder this time, as though he could force his own body to behave.

Nothing happened.

His breathing became ragged.

“Why isn't it closing?”

I had no answer. He looked at me again.

And suddenly his grip changed.

He pulled me closer and I stumbled toward him.

“Let me go.”

“No.”

“You're hurt, Damien, you need to let me get help.”

“No.”

“You're going to bleed to death!”

His eyes flashed.

“I am not dying.”

The certainty in his voice would have been comforting if he did not look like he was barely holding himself together.

Another cough hit him.

He turned his head, but not quickly enough.

Blood touched his lips again.

My stomach rolled.

He was staring at my hand. The hand that had held the knife.

His thumb moved slowly across my wrist, almost absent-mindedly, while his other hand remained pressed against the wound.

His breathing was still uneven. His body was still shaking.

Yet somehow his attention had become frighteningly fixed on me.

“Where did you get this?”

I frowned.

“The knife?”

He shook his head. His eyes moved to the mark on my neck.

That stupid bite. His face went completely still. Then he looked back at me.

His voice dropped.

“What did I do to you?”

I stared at him.

“What are you talking about?”

He did not answer. He pulled me closer again.

Not enough to hurt me, but enough to make it clear that even half-collapsed on the floor, bleeding through his clothes, he still had no intention of letting me walk out of that room.

His eyes stayed on the mark. Then something happened behind them.

His pupils widened. His entire body went rigid.

The hand holding my wrist suddenly tightened so hard that I cried out.

Damien looked at me like he had just seen a ghost.

“No.”

The word came out almost breathless.

I tried to pull away.

He held on.

“Damien, you're scaring me.”

His gaze snapped back to mine.

And this time, whatever he saw in my face seemed to frighten him even more.

He looked at the wound. Then at my neck. Then back at me.

His lips parted.

“That's impossible.”

I stared at him.

“What is?”

He did not answer. His fingers slowly moved toward the bite mark on my neck.

He stopped just before touching it.

His face had gone white.

And then, with blood still running down his side and his hand locked around mine, Damien whispered something that made my entire body go cold.

“You're the one who did this to me.”