Charlie sat on the sofa, staring blankly at the TV. She wasn't even really sure what she was watching.

But it was slightly better than sitting and staring at the door.

For the thousandth time since he'd left, her eyes flicked to the clock. It said only an hour had passed. She wasn't sure she believed it.

Exhausted. She was exhausted and wound tight all at the same time, leaving her with an unpleasant, jittery sensation—like she'd been drinking too much coffee. Charlie let out a long sigh and stood up, then hovered uncertainly.

What was she going to do?

She couldn't eat—the idea of food made her slightly nauseous. It would be impossible to sit and read anything. She had already taken a shower.

For perhaps the hundredth time, her fingers went up to the bandage on her throat. It wasn't very neat, and wasn't taped in the best place. But she hadn't removed it, instead taking the pains to not get it wet when she'd showered.

Because she was stupid.

Finally she just sat back down, agonizing in the purgatory his words had left her in. He'd said they needed to talk, but what was she supposed to say? He'd asked her to open the door, and she'd told him she would.

Maybe she shouldn't have. Maybe she should have cut her losses and cut him loose.

Even the thought felt sour.

Not because of the money. Charlie knew that just as long as she kept treating every bloodied assassin or beaten street thug he brought to her, he would pay for medical school.

That was hardly part of the equation anymore. It was still a presence in their relationship, but somehow not a very important one.

She brought her knees up toward her chest and rested her chin on top of them.

He hadn't been talking about that anyway. They'd gotten that figured out weeks ago. No, it was everything else they needed to figure out. Not just their physical relationship, but whatever else was growing beneath it. 

Her lips tingled as she remembered pressing them to the side of his mouth. With him so close, with the desire in his eyes burning so hot and so fiercely, she hadn't been able to stop herself. His hands had been so careful on her throat, every movement so hideously precise despite the simmering rage she had seen beneath the surface.

She closed her eyes for a moment, a headache beginning to tap on the inside of her temples. What she really wanted was a drink, but she didn't have any alcohol in the house. 

Which was probably a good thing, she thought with a frown. The last thing she needed was to be buzzed and trying to have a serious conversation with Remi.

Though there would be something ironic there, considering how she'd come to be involved with him.

With a groan, she tipped sideways, sprawling over the couch just as a soft knock sounded on the door. Charlie sat bolt upright, frozen. Her heart beat rapidly in her throat. 

Where had all the time gone?

Another knock sounded and she scrambled to her feet. She took a deep breath and turned the TV off before she crossed the room and hesitated with her hand on the doorknob. There wasn't a third knock.

After a second and third breath, she jerked the door open.

Remi stood with a frown on his face, his hands in his pockets. His hair was mussed, like he had run his hands through it several times. A five o'clock shadow gave him a rougher look than normal. Shadows under his eyes made his stare seem almost hollow.

But most shocking was his jeans and t-shirt.

Without the suit and tie, he looked...different, somehow. Younger, maybe. Nothing about him had ever looked vulnerable, but he certainly didn't look like a crime lord right now.

He looked like a man with a lot on his mind.

For a moment, all he did was stare at her, serious eyes sweeping from her mostly dry, tangled hair to her bare feet. Charlie wondered if she should have worn more than the tank top and boxers she liked to sleep in.

"You opened the door," he rasped.

Charlie bit at the inside of her cheek, then opened the door wider and stepped back to let him in. "I said I would."

Stepping through the door, he snorted. "What you say and what you mean aren't always the same thing, Charlie."

Her eyebrows shot toward her hairline at that, but before she could snap anything back he lunged forward. His hands trapped her face and he bent his head, kissing her hard. A muffled groan came from deep in his throat as his tongue brushed across her upper lip.

A gasp escaped her as she parted her lips and her fingers dug into his arms before she had consciously decided to kiss him back.

Then he jerked himself away, the movement violent. She watched, wide-eyed and panting, as he shut and locked the door behind him. After a moment to catch her breath, she closed her eyes, trying to gather her scattered thoughts.

Talk. They needed to talk. Nothing else could happen until they did that.

So when Remi stepped toward her again, she flung up her hands, her palms colliding with his solid chest. His eyes flicked down to her hands before he raised an eyebrow at her. Voice rough, he said, "Now that's out of the way."

A breathy sound that might have been a laugh came from her. Charlie took another deep, steadying breath before carefully peeling her hands away from his body. Keeping her steps calm and measured, she turned from him and walked into the kitchen.

The pair of beat-up work boots he had on made only the smallest sound as he trailed her.

Charlie pointed to the chair on the farthest side of the table. Remi walked past her with little more than a glance and settled into the seat. He watched expectantly as she took the chair on the opposite side of the table.

For a moment they just watched each other warily, the space provided by the table yawning between them. Taunting them.  

Neither spoke, each hoping the other would be willing to break the silence first.

Charlie crossed her arms as Remi leaned forward slightly, propping an elbow on the table. Her mouth was dry, everything she wanted to say getting jammed up in her brain. 

He just kept watching her with those unreadable emerald eyes.

Hadn't he been the one to say they needed to talk? Before Gabriel had attacked her, he had been the one to broach the subject.

So why in the hell was he sitting there waiting for her to make the first move?

The staring contest continued. Charlie didn't want to reveal her position too quickly. There was a certain advantage in letting him make the first move. Then she could consider her response. If she waited, she could establish the game.

Remi's eyes narrowed, like he knew what she was thinking and wasn't about to let her get away with it. He leaned forward even more, resting both arms on the table, fingers laced together.

She glanced down at his hands. The knuckles were various shades of red, fading purple and blue. There were small patches of abraded or torn skin on his index and middle fingers. All worse on the right than the left hand.  

Suddenly, he stretched and flexed his fingers.

"Why did you break the bouncer's hand?" The words burst out of her mouth before she could stop them. Her eyes flicked up to meet his. "And none of that because I wanted you to crap. I want a real answer."

"Isn't that kind of subjective?" Remi said, raising an eyebrow. "Maybe because you wanted me to is a real answer."

She pursed her lips, unamused and he sighed deeply through his nose. He stared down at the table, brow wrinkled in thought before he sighed again, softer this time. Holding up his hands like evidence, he said, "I did it because I wanted to."

"Why did you want to?" she nearly whispered.

That, ultimately, was what had bothered her so much. Why had he come to her defense like he had? Why did he think he was allowed to?

Because he thought she was bought and paid for? Or for some other reason.

Remi studied her for a long moment, then a small smile curled the corner of his mouth. Shaking his head ruefully, he said, "I wanted to because he put bruises on you, Charlie. He hurt you. It was unacceptable."

"But why," she nearly cried. Looking down, she made her voice more sedate and asked, "Why was it unacceptable?"

Something told her she might be asking questions he didn't know the answers to.

She heard as he shifted in his seat, but he didn't stand. He was going to tough this out just like she was.

"Because it always is," he said, voice rough.

"Don't—don't generalize this," she snapped, looking up at him, her temper flaring to life. "Don't turn this into some weak all women should be respected or protected or what the hell ever. This is about you, Remi. You and me."

"Are you afraid of me?" he suddenly asked, making her lips part in surprise.

She gaped at him. That's what he had been thinking about for nine days? Charlie closed her mouth and shook her head. "No," she said flatly, "I'm not."

Because it was the truth. Because that's what he wanted to hear. Because that's what she wanted to say. She had pretended to herself that she was afraid. It hadn't lasted long.

"Did you ever think maybe you should be?"

"Yes." She didn't even dare to blink.

"Are you lying to me?" he said softly, watching her like a hawk.

"Why would I lie?"

Remi sat back, a wrinkle appearing between his eyebrows. She could almost hear his fingers drumming lightly against his thigh, even though she couldn't see them. 

After another long moment passed, she scoffed quietly and shook her head at him. He narrowed his eyes in response, but didn't say anything more.

Are we really doing anything here? she wondered. 

"What are we trying to do here?" he asked, making her start. He gestured between them. "You're not afraid of me and I broke a man's hand because he bruised you. So what?"

It was almost eerie, the fact that he was voicing what she was thinking, more or less.

"Do you want me to be afraid of you?" She kept her voice steady, if a little quiet. "Is that why you broke his hand?"

It had occurred to her that he didn't like her lack of fear. That he didn't like the fact that she challenged him.

"No." His voice was hard and flat. Honest.

She looked at his knuckles, mulled over everything she knew about him, everything he was, then looked at him. With a long breath, she stood up. He did not.

Charlie came around the table. He tilted his head back, slumping in his seat a little. A picture of ease, except for his fingers which were indeed drumming against the top of his thigh.

"Are you lying?" 

He blinked slowly, cocking his head in a way that made him look like a rattlesnake about to strike. "Why would I lie?" he said, low and careful.

"Because you can," she whispered, coming a little closer. She licked her dry lips and his eyes flicked to her mouth. "Because there was no reason for you to break his hand other than that."

Remi stood, the movement violent enough that it sent his chair skidding backwards over the tile, but she didn't flinch. Didn't so much as blink, even as he towered over her.

She didn't balk when he came closer.

He studied her face, her eyes. Searching for a flicker of fear. For the hint of a lie.

Charlie had known for nine days that she couldn't give him that. Couldn't look at him with fear even if she wanted to.

Because part of her did want to. Part of her hated what he was—who he was. 

But that part was simply too small. She wanted a reason—a good damn reason—as to why she couldn't find it in herself to be afraid of him. She wanted him to say something, anything, that would provide that reason.

Remi leaned a little closer, his breath mingling with hers.

"Why aren't you afraid?" he asked, his voice black and still as midnight.

There was no way to answer that.

"Why did you defend me?" she returned.

In the span of just a breath, she saw a dozen possible responses wheel through his eyes. Many of them, she knew, would send her straight into a furious temper. Some would leave her confused. Some would be outright lies.

She blinked, and his eyes cleared of all those possibilities, save one: a grim truth. Something he didn't necessarily want to say, but couldn't help think.

Charlie very nearly held her breath.

His movements as obscenely precise as they had been when he bandaged her neck, he wrapped his fingers around her wrist. He stroked his thumb over the inside of her arm, where those bruises were mostly faded. A shiver raced down her spine and pooled in her core.

He brushed his thumb over the sensitive skin again. Then, he said, "Because he put his hands on something he had no right to touch."

Charlie swallowed against her suddenly dry throat. His thumb traced down to her wrist once more. "And you think you do?" she said.

"I think I only touch you because you want me to," he growled, pressing closer to prove his point. When she didn't shove him away, he smiled in grim triumph. "And you know, deep down, that's the only reason I've ever touched you."

"So it's only about me?" She raised an eyebrow in disbelief, meeting his suddenly hungry gaze.

He slid a hand into the hair at the nape of her neck, fingers twining through the thick strands. A shudder ran through them both. Slowly, he tilted her head back.

"Why aren't you afraid," he said, each word enunciated clearly.

Charlie shivered again, her hands aching to slide up his chest and around the back of his neck. Her breath trembled in and out unevenly.

The thought was out of her mouth before she could decide if it was really true.

"Because you won't hurt me."