Traded for a Scar, I Carried His Heir and Took His Table novel · Chapter 5 of 24

Chapter 5: The Doorway

He had me against the hall wall by the wrists before I finished the question.

"What did you choose me for?" I said again, with my back flat to the plaster.

It was Tuesday, near midnight, and I had waited up three nights for an answer he would not give.

His driver had left. The lamps were burning. The only sound in the house was the two of us breathing.

"You want to know?" Levan said.

"I've asked you three times."

"You stood in the kitchen doorway."

I went cold from my scalp to my feet.

"You were holding a tray of khinkali," he said, very quietly. "Eleven of them, steaming. I was on the floor of your father's restaurant with glass in my face and blood in my mouth, and I looked up and there you were."

"I was sixteen."

"I know how old you were."

His hands were hard on my wrists, but they were not hurting me.

"Your father swore the oath at my father's table with me in a hospital bed," Levan said. "My father took his bread, because my father believed bread was a promise."

"And you?"

"I took the glass out of my face a piece at a time for a year. I never believed in anything he swore."

"You looked at me," Levan said. "You were the only one in that room who did. Your brother was sick in the sink and your father was on the phone, and you looked right at me with your mouth open."

"Yes."

"And then you went back to plating."

I had been waiting eleven years for someone to say it.

I had not known it would feel like relief.

"My father told me to go back to the kitchen," I said. "He said it twice. The second time he took the tray out of my hand and put it in the other one and pushed me through the door."

"And you went."

"I went. I plated eleven orders of khinkali while you bled on the floor. I carried them out to table six and smiled."

I watched his face change.

"I have hated that girl every day since," I said. "More than I hate Besik. More than I hate my father. So you can stop looking at me like I'm a stranger, Kapanadze. If you want it taken out of someone, take it out of me."

"That's not what I want."

"Then what do you want?"

He looked at my mouth.

"This," he said. "God help me. I want this."

I kissed him.

I got my wrists free and my hands into his hair and I pulled his head down and bit his lower lip until it bled.

He made a sound I had never heard from a man and picked me up off the floor.

He slammed me back into the wall with my legs locked around his hips.

A framed photograph on the wall beside us rattled and held.

"Tell me to stop," he said against my throat.

"Never."

"Beridze," he said.

"Don't you dare."

He tore my shirt open at the front and the buttons went across the hall.

His mouth was on my breast, hot and wet, with his teeth.

I arched and cried out.

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