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7 | Vincent

"𝐲𝐨𝐮'𝐫𝐞 𝐠𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐢 𝐠𝐨𝐭𝐭𝐚 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐲 𝐡𝐢𝐠𝐡, 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞...𝐭𝐨 𝐠𝐞𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐨𝐟𝐟 𝐦𝐲 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐝..."

𝐭𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐥𝐨

My mother used to burn my arm every time I do something wrong.

She takes a metal knife from the kitchen draw, holds it over the fire then grabs my hand before pressing it down. It was a form of punishment, a painful reminder that I had learned to associate with misbehaviour.

"My dress!"

Clara yelled out in frustration, her beautiful dress now torn and bloodied, her hands bleeding from the glass shards. I stared at the mess she had caused in my room, but her concern was all about her dress.

"You're worried about your dress?" I asked, incredulously.

"This cost me over five grand, so yes, I am worried," she snapped back, struggling to stand.

"Well, those watches cost me over a three million, so safe to say, five grand doesn't matter right now," I retorted, walking over to help her up from the scattered glass.

"Ow!" She winced as I pulled her up, but I couldn't help but notice the torn back of her dress, revealing her black thong. She teased, "enjoying the view?"

I groaned and looked away, trying to maintain my composure. But when I glanced back, I saw her bloody hands and blood trickling down her legs.

"You have shards of glass in your ass," I pointed out.

"Thank you for letting me know," she whisper sarcastically.

"Come, let's clean you up before everyone thinks I've tried to kill you," I said, leading her to the bathroom. She nodded, accepting the help. I opened the cupboard and took out the first aid kit, but she groaned in pain and tried to pull the glass out from her hand.

"Stop, I'll clean it. You're going to cause an infection if you touch it," I warned her.

She sighed, and I flicked the aid kit open, taking out a pair of tweezers. Her hand was small, delicate. I tried to be gentle, though it wasn't really my style. "Ow!" She yelled, "ow, that hurts!"

"Deal with it and stop screaming in my ear," I retorted, continuing to remove the splinters. "What were you doing in my room, Clara Saint?"

"Just wanted to have a look around," she replied.

"You better not be up to anything," I warned her. Her eyelashes flicked up, and her eyes were mesmerising. After ten minutes, I finished cleaning her hand and removed any remaining glass before cleansing it with an alcohol wipe. "Turn around."

"No way—"

"You want to lose blood? Turn around."

"No, you can speak to me like a human and not a dog," she retorted, crossing her arms over her chest. She was a unique challenge, unlike anyone I'd ever dealt with.

So defensive and aggressive, yet undeniably beautiful and infuriating. Sometimes, I found myself wondering how I ended up having sex with her. Then again, I couldn't deny that she was probably the best I'd ever had, even if our encounter had lasted only fifteen minutes.

"Clara. Turn. Around." I repeated, and this time, she complied. I guided her to lean against the sink counter before pushing her down, and she gasped.

"Don't get any ideas," she whispered, her eyes locking with mine through the mirror.