The Skin Thief

Chapter 86

I wake with a start at the sound of the door opening. Quickly, I sit up, then wince as pain from my injuries shoots through me.

Marcus walks into the apartment, his eyes finding mine immediately.

"You're meant to be in bed," he says.

"You were only meant to be gone for an hour," I reply, forcing on a smile. He chuckles and closes the door behind him before throwing his keys in a little silver bowl on the counter and then taking off his blazer.

The white shirt beneath fits him perfectly. It's tight enough that you can see the shape of his muscles beneath, but not too tight that it stretches awkwardly over him. He takes off his tie and unbuttons the top two buttons on his shirt.

Fuck, he looks good.

I want to hit myself as soon as that thought enters my head.

Stop it, Rowan. He's the enemy.

"How are you feeling?" he asks.

"Very sore," I reply.

"Mentally?"

I sigh. "It hit whilst you were out," I say, not exactly lying. The realisation had slammed into me whilst he was gone. It just had nothing to do with the Clarkie situation and more to do with Marcus himself.

Marcus sighs and walks toward me. I let tears gather in my eyes, and when I next speak, my voice wobbles.

"Clarkie tried to kill me," I whisper.

Marcus sits on the arm of the sofa, his expression worried.

"He did. But he's gone now. He can't hurt you any more."

I nod my head and gulp, wiping my eyes before I can cry.

"Perhaps I should arrange for you to talk to someone about your trauma," he states.

"No, no," I say, shaking my head.

"Therapy is a helpful tool that can aid your recovery," he pushes.

"I don't want to, Marcus," I sigh. "At least, not yet."

"Ivy, a man tried to murder you last night. You were beaten and left permanently scarred..." he trails off as he sees more tears gather in my eyes.

"Marcus," I whisper. "I have my own way of dealing with traumas. Please, just let me figure this all out myself and process everything before we start talking about possible therapy."

"Ivy," he sighs.

"Marcus," I interrupt. "I can deal with this. This is the very thing you were testing me for in the interviews, which I know I passed with flying colours. I'm going to be fine."

He doesn't look convinced, but he drops the subject.

"I have something I wish to discuss with you," he finally says, standing up. My heart leaps into my throat in a moment of panic.

He's figured you out.

I force myself to calm down as I realise that is a ridiculous thought. If he'd figured me out, I'd be rotting in an unnamed location, beaten and tortured.

"What?" I ask and groan as I shift on the sofa, agitating more of my wounds.

"I'll make some dinner first, and we can discuss it after."

"You don't have to do all of this, you know," I say.

"Do all of what?" he asks.

"Babysit me. I'll be fine at home."