I felt my back against a cold surface as my eyes fluttered; my lids were heavy, and I tried to move to my side as pain shot through my body.
Where am I?
"Don't try to move too much; you will rip your stitches," I heard a deep voice grumble across the room.
Now, where have I heard that rich baritone voice from? I am sure I have heard it somewhere before... Damien.
Suddenly, the events of last night came flooding back, and I arched off the surface I was lying on as swiftly as the pain in my stomach allowed.
"What did I just say about moving too much?" Damien said, standing up from the sofa he was sitting on.
"Where am I?" I asked, my throat burning as I spoke.
"At my place," Damien replied, leaning against the wall.
"You were attacked, Jess. Do you remember anything about that?" Damien asked. I opened my mouth to talk, but my throat burned even more, tears pricking my eyes.
Damien noticed this and reached to a cabinet, pulling out a cup and pouring a glass of water.
It wasn't until I had gulped the last bit of water that I was aware of my surroundings: the medic kit and medical instruments across the other end of what I now realized was the kitchen, where I was currently sitting in my panties and bra.
I squealed, attempting to cover my half-naked state from Damien, who looked half confused and half amused.
"You pervert!" I yelled, attempting to jump off the kitchen counter. Pain shot up to my sides, making me yelp.
In one swift motion, Damien was between my legs, using his hands to pin my arms against the counter, annoyance flashing through his eyes, evident in his voice.
"I really hate repeating myself; I said don't move," he said in a gruff voice.
"How could you... how did you undress me?" I asked, and this time Damien rolled his eyes.
"First of all, that's a dumb question. Secondly, you were losing a lot of blood from the cut, and the nearest hospital was hours away. What was I supposed to do? Stitch you up when you are fully dressed?" he asked.
"You stitched me up in a kitchen?" I asked. "Is that even hygienic?"
"Trust me, it wasn't all sunshine and rainbows thinking about blood on all my cooking utensils," he retorted.
I opened my mouth to give a smart reply, but the pain shot through my stomach again, and I twisted my face in agony.
"Let me see; where does it hurt?" Damien asked, kneeling to the level of the stitches under my stomach, carefully touching and examining it.
The position we were in was more compromising than the last; I could feel his breath against my thigh, unfortunately, and heat rushed through my body, unfortunately too.
It must be that thing that happens to people's brains after trauma. What is it called again?
I cleared my throat, and Damien looked up at me, his expression unreadable for a moment before clearing his voice as well.
"It looks okay. You just need to stop fucking moving," he said, standing up and moving away from me entirely.
Smart choice!
He left momentarily and came back with a pair of oversized T-shirts, one blue and one pink, tossing them to me.
"Pick the one that fits and put it on," he commanded, leaning against the wall.
I decided to go with the blue T-shirt. I watched Damien through the corner of my eye as I pulled the shirt over my head. He was studying me.
"So?"
"So what?" I asked.
"Are we going to pretend like you weren't almost assassinated?" Damien asked. Once again, I was reminded of that very fact, my skin suddenly feeling very cold and clammy.
"I don't know what you want me to say," I said.
"A thank you for saving my life would be a nice place to start," he said, flashing me a sarcastic smile.
"You know, you have subtly tried to remind me of that since I woke up," I said.
"That's because it's the polite thing to do; someone saves your life, you say thank you," Damien said, his voice annoyingly condescending, like he was talking to a child.
Even through all the pain, I could feel annoyance bubbling up in me because of his tone, though not for him saving my life. I am very happy to be alive, by the way.
"Thank you," I said, hoping I sounded as genuine as I felt.
There was a brief moment of silence. I could almost swear he didn't hear me.
"I asked my men to look into the CCTV footage of what happened, and there was nothing; the CCTV cameras were disconnected from the streets before the Conswinks mansion," Damien said, cocking his head to the side.
"I found that very odd. I was thinking about reporting it to the police, but I wanted you conscious first," Damien said.
"I don't want the police involved," I said, and Damien's brows rose, his eyes curious.
"That's interesting," Damien said, taking a step closer to me. "So who is it? Who attacked you?" he asked.
"Look..." I started, coming down from the counter very, very slowly, so he doesn't start whining about ripping my stitches again.
"...I appreciate that you saved my life and all, but there is some information I would rather not divulge," I said, finally coming down from the counter. Damien snorted, rolling his eyes.
"I am one of the most powerful men in the country. You know if I wanted to know who ordered the hit on you, I would have done that in minutes, before you even regained consciousness," Damien said.
"Like you said, you are one of the most powerful men in the country; then why didn't you get the information?" I said, coming face to face with him, the same challenge in his eyes now dancing in mine.
"If I got it myself, it would have been so incredibly boring. There's no fun in that," Damien said.
"Bullshit!" I countered, folding my arms around my body.
"You didn't get it because something or someone prevented your access to that information. Not everything is a mystery to be solved," I said, and I could see the scowl forming on his face.
"This is my shit, so please stay out of it," I said finally.
For a moment, I thought he was going to jump me, but he didn't. Instead, he began to chuckle to himself.
He moved closer to me, cupping my chin with his fingers and tilting it upwards; I could make out his eyes.
"You are being so incredibly boring right now," he said, a smile still playing on his lips. "I will get what I want within twenty-four hours," he said, dropping his hands from my chin and walking away.
Halfway through the stairs, he paused, his hands gripping the railing; he looked like he was going to say something, but he didn't.
It wasn't until I heard the door of a room slam that I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding.
Now, where the fuck am I supposed to sleep?