Chapter One Hundred and Thirty-One

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I almost spit a mouthful of oatmeal back into the bowl when the coldest, iciest blue eyes I've ever seen fill my line of vision, their piercing quality effortlessly standing out against the backdrop of the enormous room, making even the most impressive aspects of the custom dining area pale in comparison. One minute I'm by myself and the next I'm not, the sight of his towering, imposing form too abrupt for words, his presence beyond startling, literally making my heart stop.

Frost walks into the dining room, the casual shirt and slacks he had on the last time I saw him replaced by a dark tracksuit and running shoes. But even more noticeable is the big black shoulder bag slung across his broad chest.

The hairs on the back of my neck rise as though they're reaching for the heavens—and I don't blame them. They're owner is right there with them, silently praying for God to come down and save her from the devil who has finally shown himself. But I can't. Because, right now, it seems Roni Gallo is, quite literally, incapable of doing pretty much anything.

Even though my first instinct is to get up and back away from him, my shocked system won't physically let me. I sit paralyzed in my chair, the spoon dropping from my hand instantly, as if I've lost all coordination in my body, the piece of silverware slipping between trembling fingers and colliding with china and hot oatmeal with an audible clink.

I watch in silent trepidation as he continues to advance, holding my gaze all the while, provoking a nation of goosebumps all over my sore body that sweep all the way up to my ears.

I clutch the front of the robe impulsively, becoming extremely self-conscious as I remember my nakedness underneath, my lungs speeding open and closed as he gets closer and closer.

He stops a few chairs away from me, eyeing me intently, his expression neutral, and all I can do is return the favor, staring up at his tall, imposing frame, into sharp, arresting eyes as I'm rendered completely speechless.

Every cell in me wants to take off running in the opposite direction, and almost instinctively, my eyes dart to his hands, remembering his daunting grip on the crop. But unlike last night, his large hands are free—save for the gold band on his ring finger.

I look away from him, my eyes flitting back to my oatmeal, feeling a familiar wave of guilt that I wish would go away, one that keeps resurfacing every time my eyes land on it, every time I see the physical reminder that this is wrong. Abhorrent. Unforgivable.

"Good afternoon," he says, his voice commanding my attention even though I don't want to look at him, the plain words a complete contrast to his severe features. My eyes dart back to him in confusion, widening with surprise.

"Afternoon?" is all I can offer in return, a bit taken aback. "What time is it?" I ask, realizing I haven't seen a single clock since I woke up—including the one that I'm positive was here last night. Both my phone and the Ice Block were dead when I got my duffel bag back, and after seeing myself in the bathroom, charging either of them wasn't exactly a priority.

He frowns slightly, a scowl slowly creeping into his bored expression.

"I gave you a customary greeting, Ramona," he says, his voice laced with an almost snobbish, patronizing element. "I think it's only courteous that you respond in kind before delving into a conversation. That's what normal people typically do."

Oh.

My.

Fucking.

God...

Did I just hear right?

Courteous?

Courteous?

Is...is this dude fucking kidding me right now?!

I almost lose it right then and there, raw anger outshining heightened anxiety for a split second as I ball my fist and grit my teeth against his nonchalant arrogance. The absolute nerve of this fucker, coming in here and talking to me as if nothing happened. And, since that's not enough, he has the audacity to give me lip service for not playing along with his bullshit, acting like he didn't just chain me down and beat the crap out of me!

"There's not a single, damn thing that's good or normal about my afternoon, Doctor Frost," I spit venomously, unable to subdue my rising emotions. "So you'll forgive me if I skip out on any customary greetings or small talk."

I'm practically fuming from every angle, the cuts and bruises all over my body seeming to reawaken completely, throbbing and twinging anew, in tandem with my barely-contained rage.

But I might as well be mute for all he cares because my reply flies right over his perfect head, his expression static, blatantly ignoring my statement and the sheer irritation written all over my contorted face, dismissing my feelings like they're no more than the scum underneath his old, discarded shoes, completely unfazed and unbothered—which only infuriates me even more. It's like talking to a brick wall and a petulant, inconsiderate child all at the same time. Nuts!

My fingers curl into fists again, but this time it's not an involuntary quirk of anxiety. No. This is one hundred percent intentional; all I can do to keep myself from choking the fuck out of this overbearing, condescending shithead.

He sets his bag on the table, his demeanor relaxed, almost tranquil, like he doesn't have a single care in the world. He zips it open and pulls out what I instantly recognize as a first aid kit. Instead of saying anything, he slides it across the table in my direction and then follows suit, moving toward me again.

His entire torso fills the frames of my glasses, and I continue to glare at him from behind them even though my heart is threatening to climb its way up my throat, hammering harder and harder with every step he takes.

He settles into the chair next to mine, his broad build taking up the entire space, and I automatically stiffen at his close proximity, clutching at the front of my robe impulsively, feeling what I can only describe as excruciating—no, crippling—discomfort, and not just because of the bruises that plague my body—bruises he created.

I look away from him again, my eyes shifting back to my bowl even though they are filled with suspicion, the tension in the air almost crushing, reviving the strain in my neck and shoulders—along with the memory of what caused it.

"I'm sure you've already met Tilda," he says, effortlessly seizing my attention despite my effort to ignore him, chatting casually like any of this is remotely ordinary, even when it's obvious the last thing I want to do is have a conversation with his ass, much less a one-sided one. His voice is even now, deep and calm, not a hint of emotion...good or bad. Just typical, unreadable Dexter Frost, the one I've come to know. Not the unhinged, crazed demon from last night.

My eyes dart back to his reluctantly and find his attention on the large medical box in front of him when he keeps talking.

"I'd asked her to stay and make sure you ate in case I returned later than planned." He flips the latches, his thumbs lifting both locks simultaneously, popping open the kit. The action is swift and effortless, but also acute and precise. Deliberate. Measured. It stands out to me for some reason, and I can't help but notice it. I also can't help but wonder whether it's simply a result of practice in his line of work or a byproduct of being an anal, calculating son of a bitch.

"But I see that wasn't necessary," he adds, his gaze flitting between me and the oatmeal splatters around the bowl, amusement flashing in his eyes at my ungraceful display of trying to wolf it down in spite of my jaw.

I feel my cheeks heat up even as I resist the urge to roll my eyes, hating myself for feeling even the tiniest inkling of embarrassment about my current...culinary challenges when they're entirely his fault.

"Put your hand out," he says, pulling items out of the kit one after another and setting them down between us in organized rows and columns, each one equally spaced from the next.

I frown in confusion, completely thrown off by the abrupt request, eyeing both him and his peculiar exhibition warily.

If there was any doubt in my mind whatsoever that he has some kind of OCD, this right here huffs and puffs and blows it away. In fact, I'm now convinced he's a full-blown anal freak with—

I almost have a seizure as soon as the thought forms, the unintended pun laughing sadistically in my face, unwittingly beating me at my own game. I bite my bottom lip on impulse, wanting to curse myself when those two words echo in my head.

Anal freak...

Anal. Freak.

Anal.

Freak.

***

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