Chapter 6— Who Are You, Doyle?

Deven's POV:

"What about this?" Doyle asks from across the second aisle, another pair of red lingerie dangling from his right pointer finger, a teasing smile smeared across his face.

I flush at the provocative clothing in his hands. This is the fourth lingerie he's held up. I regret accepting his suggestion to check out the underwear section first.

I quickly rush over to him, yanking his hand down and looking all around us to make sure nobody else caught sight of his flimsy display.

"Doyle, stop it," I hiss, looking sharply into his eyes.

He withdraws his hand from mine to place the lingerie on the rack as he takes a step back to roam my body up and down with his eyes.

He does that a lot yet every time he does it, I don't want to cover myself cause I'm uncomfortable, I want to cover myself cause I feel like his next meal.

"Why should I? You're my ma-" he pauses, and his eyes drift from my body and connect with my eyes

Why did he cut his sentence short?

"Your what?" I ask, suddenly curious as to what he had to say.

He clears his throat and composes himself, wearing his regular teasing smirk, "you're mine."

I've told him I'm not some prize he could just claim.

I narrow my eyes at him and walk closer to him, "I have told you so many times that I'm not some prize you could just claim."

He lets out a breathy chuckle and places both his hands on my waist, bending down till our nose touches," you're right, you're not a prize; you're my prize."

I tighten my lip to hold in my smile as he turns me around with his hands on my waist.

"Let's go find more undies for you, maybe this time we could find some bras for those gorgeous mounds of yours," he says.

I feel the entire heat in this world creep unto my face as I cross my hands over my chest.

He lets out a deep, hearty laugh and drags me along.

I furrow my eyebrows and scold, "it's not funny."

He responds with an even deeper laugh.

I grumble as he drags me along.

Previously when he rephrased his words to 'mine', I think he meant to say something else. What was it and why did he stop himself from saying it?

We scoped out some bras for me; one of the most embarrassing moments of my life; trust me, I've had a lot of embarrassing moments, considering I lived at a club.

The club.

Unfortunately, I miss it there. I hate it though. I hate that some part of me longs to go back to that awful place. I should be happy; satisfied; pleased that I'm out of that hellhole and being taken care of, but no, I still crave that place.

"Bellus mea?" I hear Doyle call out, snapping me out of my thoughts.

"Hmm," I turn my head toward him.

"Are you okay? Do you want to take a break? We could always come back tomorrow," he suggests, sounding genuinely concerned.

My heart flutters at the genuine concern he holds for me. Ever since I lost my parents, I lost the privilege to feel taken care of or loved. It hurts. It doesn't help my loneliness. I guess that's why I want to go back to the club. The club provided some sort of comfort for me; I felt wanted and needed, sure they weren't for the right reasons, but the feelings of care and some delusional, distorted love were there. I know morals; heck, I have morals. I just rejected those morals to indulge in my desires; and if that's how I, a girl who has absolutely nothing, got her needs fulfilled—by letting people use her to feel wanted or needed— if that's how I got it, then that's how I'll do it.

I let out a giggle to ease off the tension in me. "I'm fine. Stop worrying."

He doesn't let down easily. His stare hardens and I feel like he's boring his eyes into my soul.

I look down at the floor, wrapping my arms around myself. I don't like the way he's staring at me. This stare is making me wrap myself because I'm uncomfortable, I hate to say it but I want the stare that makes me feel like his next meal.

He places his left finger under my chin and lifts it, looking directly into my eyes, "are you sure you're okay?"

No is my honest answer but we all know I can't say that.

"Yes I'm fine," I smile.

He remains quiet for a couple of seconds before letting my chin go and nodding once. I can tell he still doesn't believe me.

"Don't hesitate to let me know if this gets too much for you or if you need anything," he says.

I nod.

His eyes dart around everywhere on my face. He's still trying to read me.

I place my hand on his and squeeze, letting him know I'm okay.

He sighs and leaves a lingering kiss on my forehead. I close my eyes to relish in this comfort I'm sure is never gonna last.

Our moment is interrupted by the ringing of his cell phone.

He groans in annoyance and picks up the call.

"Hello," he growls and glares at the glass door as if it's the person who called. I'm glad it's not the person, they would be more than 6 feet under if looks could kill.

I poke his arm and mouth 'be nice.'

He grins, grabs my hand, and kisses the back of it, at least he was about to but his movement halted, leaving our hands frozen in mid-air.

The grin on his face is replaced by a deep scowl.

Whatever it is, it must be something bad.

"I'll meet you at the place," he replies coldly. The aura around me has changed; it's no longer warm and inviting instead it screams bloodlust.

I retract my hand immediately from his sudden tight grip and rub it gently.

"Oww," I whisper, massaging my hand.

"I'm sorry mea," he apologizes. His tone is soft but every other thing about him is rigid. His eyes tell you how pissed he is, almost livid.

What could make him this mad?

I think it's my turn to ask him if he's okay.

I look up at him. "Are you okay?"

"Yea," he sounds distant and bothered, "I just have things I need to attend to. Let's go pay for those things."

"Ok," I whisper. I'm really worried. I've never seen him like this.

We pay for the things and make our way out of the mall and to the car.

He's really tense. Every movement he makes is tense.

He clears his throat. "I'm sorry you're seeing me like this."

"It's okay. I understand that things get stressful," I reply truthfully.

He looks at me and a slight smile appears on his face.

He grabs my hand, which was squeezing the life out of my lap, and litter kisses each finger.

"You are cute, Bellus mea," he mumbles against my hand.

I blush and look down at my lap.

"Is there anything you wanna get before we get back home?" he asks.

Home. It brings a smile to my face. I like it.

I remember there is that one thing I never got when I left the club. Cookies. From a specific place.

"Cookies," I whisper.

"Ok. Store bought or freshly made?" he questions.

He doesn't find it weird that that's what I want.

My eyes widen at him, but I blink repeatedly to cover up my shock.

"Umm...freshly made from Nile bakery," I say.

"Okay. We'll have to make it quick though," he answers.

I smile and nod rapidly with enthusiasm.

We get to the bakery, and I suddenly realize that we're not too far from the club. What if someone recognizes me?

"I know what you're thinking. Don't worry, we're not getting down from the car, we'll go through the drive-through," he reassures.

I let out a sigh of relief.

He orders 4 different types of cookies; 4 pieces each.

"Thank you, but don't you think these are a lot of cookies? I can't possibly finish all of them. Also, what if I don't like it?" I question him.

I sound very ungrateful. I shouldn't have said that.

"I shouldn't have said that. I'm sorry," I mumble, resting back in the chair.

He reaches over and squeezes my thigh.

"Don't apologize. If something's bothering you, tell me; don't conceal it," he reassured.

"Besides you could always save some for later," he adds.

I nod.

We make our way home.

There it is again. Home.

And I dig into the cookies. The warm, delicate aroma makes me want to moan.

I take a bite out of the first cookie, and I melt. It's delicious. I love it. These cookies live up to their standard.

I take another from the second bag and this time I can't stop the moan that slips out.

I cover my mouth. His hand that's still resting on my thigh, clutches it.

"May I get a taste, Mea?" He asks, his voice an octave lower than before.

"Yea," I whisper.

"Which one do you want?" I question.

"Doesn't matter," he responds.

I break off a piece of the chocolate caramel cookie and place it in front of his lips.

He opens his mouth, brings his tongue out and retracts the cookie from my fingers, and licks the remnant of chocolate on my fingertips. He does all this slowly while keeping eye contact with me.

I blush at his actions and point at the road. "E-eyes on the t-the road please."

He chuckles and focuses on the road.

"I don't get how that simple cookie made you moan. I bet I could make you let out that sound again. Only it would be louder, and it would turn to you screaming," he teases. His signature smirk on his face.

My eyes widen at his boldness, I flush red as I turn away from him, taking in deep breaths to calm my racing heart.

"Please focus on driving us home," I mutter.

He laughs. "But am I lying?"

I dig my hands into my thighs. "Please just do that and shut up."

He chuckles and mutters, "Bellus mea."

We finally get home, and he opens the door to the house and ushers me in.

He stands in front of the door and pulls me in by my hand.

"I'll send someone to stay here with you till I return. His name is Lucas. He has a key to the house, so don't worry if you hear the door open suddenly," he warns.

He presses a firm kiss against my head and turns to leave.

I want to ask where he's going, but I don't want to pry.

Minutes later, the front door opens, and the voice of a male calls out," Helloo! Ma'am- I- was- sent- to protect, I'm here."

Sent to protect? From what?

I walk out of the kitchen and into the leaving room.

"Oh hello," I wave shyly.

"I'm-"

"Deven. He already informed me about you," he says cheerfully.

Informed?

"Oh. Ok," I reply, completely speechless.

"I'm-"

"Lucas. He also informed me about you," I retort.

"Oh. Ok. Well, I'm here to protect you till Doyle comes back. He has some-" he pauses, there's that pause again, but this time it's him that's doing it, "business to take care of."

I don't like the way he enunciated 'business.'

Why do I feel like there's something you're not telling me, Doyle? What secrets are you hiding?

And protect? Since when do regular men have bodyguards at their beck and call? Except Doyle is not a regular man. Then, who are you, Doyle?