A/N: Everyone, thanks again for reading! Just a quick clarification, the videos I feature on the side bar with each chapter is just a YouTube video of the song I chose as the chapter soundtrack. Kinda sets the mood of the scenes... Enjoy!

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I expected to have no shortage of nightmares after the crazy night Anna and I had been through but when I woke up the next day, the unfamiliar but incredibly luxurious room bathed with the soft glow of the warm, late day sun, I only recalled a deep, peaceful sleep, free of bad dreams.

I stretched in bed, the agony of my midsection registering without delay, and I groaned out loud and held my breath until the pain subsided, only letting my eyes move to take in what was around me.

The minimalist furnishings, the gray, blue and white color scheme, and the brushed metal and wood accents definitely felt masculine and modern. On the other hand, the random, dog-eared books lying around, the dark green sweater draped over the couch, and the small, untidy stack of papers and folders perched on a side table, gave it a comfortable and lived-in feel that stopped the place from looking like it was staged to appear in an interior-design magazine.

Turning my head to the side, I glanced at the dark gray pillow next to me, the dent on its center reminding me exactly of whose bed it was I currently stretched out on.

Brandon.

Instead of jumping off the bed in panic, I did something very unexpected.

I snatched up the pillow and smothered my own face with it, breathing in the familiar scent of him like a drowning person whose head just bobbed out of the water.

Every memory from last night was vivid in my mind like a View-Master—each one flashing behind my closed eyes in perfect sequence with the rest. Strangely, the only ones that stood out were those of Brandon—his face dark with fury marching down the hospital hall, the anxiety in his eyes when he admitted to being scared, the tenderness of his smile when he dried my hair and dressed me after my shower, his grim frustration when he inspected my bruises and his look of apprehension as he tucked me in bed with the weak resolve to sleep himself on the couch.

I didn't recall all the words but I remembered every confusing emotion that rioted for the prime spot in my heart.

How do you push away a man who just pulls you right back into his arms?

I decided that deep, philosophic contemplation wasn't an ideal activity after waking up late in the day with a growling stomach and a body revolting against one's self in pain. It just didn't work out.

Carefully, I pushed myself up on my elbows and spied the digital alarm clock sitting on the night stand on Brandon's side of the bed.

1:46 PM.

No wonder my head felt fuzzy.

I grabbed the small bottle of painkillers sitting on my night stand and popped a couple of tablets, ignoring the warning label to eat before taking them.

Decided that Brandon had probably already gone to work sometime this morning, I didn't attempt to put any shorts on, or even look for any. I shuffled my feet to the bathroom wearing just his shirt that hung loose over my one shoulder and grazed the top of my thighs.

My hair was a wild tangle of honey blond waves and since I couldn't lift my arms up for too long, the most I managed was just getting it off my face. I brushed my teeth and splashed some water on my face, dabbing away at the leftover smudges of mascara just under my eyes.

I was hungry and sorely tempted to raid the kitchen for food but I couldn't walk out of the room just yet without looking at everything that told me a little something about this complicated man I was marrying.

I knew it was wrong to poke around but I looked at everything—from his toothpaste to his aftershave to his medicine cabinet—and I was pleasantly surprised to find that although he liked expensive stuff, he didn't seem overly vain or fussy about himself. I also noted with a deep sense of satisfaction that there was no drawer with girly stuff in it—or any traces of a woman sharing his bathroom at all, if you don't count my dirty clothes from last night neatly rolled together and sitting on the top of the pile in his covered hamper.

As if this means anything. You know it doesn't. Or at least it shouldn't.

I trudged back to the bedroom, picking up a couple of random books he seemed to be reading halfway through. One was a business book and another was by Malcolm Gladwell.

No epic novels of love and betrayal. He really wasn't a very romantic person.

Except that he was very romantic last night—like a dark prince who came and whisked you away from it all. For someone you frequently accuse to be unromantic, he's surely tallying up points in your book.

I decided not to dwell on Brandon's actions at the moment. Last night was emotionally stressful for a lot of us. Brandon's actions could've simply been exagerrated by the circumstances and my own mental and physical strain after last night's ordeal. I didn't want to read too much into what could mean very little to him.

With no memory of the penthouse's layout, I stepped out into hallway that ran past three more doors before leading to the open concept living space. As I poked my head out into what looked like the living room, I caught the sound of a familiar voice.

I tiptoed my way through the living room and stopped short when the kitchen and dining area came into view.

Brandon was standing by the kitchen island, wearing a white apron over his gray shirt and jeans ensemble, ladling what appeared to be some kind of tomato sauce into a glass dish. He was speaking loudly, voices murmuring in response coming from a laptop he had sitting on the counter a foot away from his prep area. He was clearly in the middle of a conference call.

He looked up and caught my gaze, surprise registering on his expression as I slowly made my way over to him with a small smile.

"...willing to sign with us on contract if we can guarantee a shipment expendience level..."

"...it could cost us a lot if things go wrong which they often don't but it's a risk with a high profit reach...

He absolutely has no idea how sexy he looks with an apron on—regardless of whether or not he's wearing anything under it.

I beamed at him when I got closer and saw that he had strips of lasagna in the glass dish into which he had been slowly pouring the thick pasta sauce.

A warm blush crept on my cheeks as his eyes appraised me from head to toe because while he was sadly fully clothed under the apron, I was aware that his white shirt hid little in the light of the room.

I was braless and my nipples were stiff under the soft fabric while my legs and feet were bare and fully exposed. Despite my bandaged knees, I was aware of the recently-tumbled look I was sporting.

The dark, hungry heat in his eyes was impossible to miss but instead of prompting me to run as fast as I could in the opposite direction, it pulled me in, vestiges of last night's memories just right before I fell asleep springing in my mind.

I remembered the whisper of his lips against my cheek and hair, the protective weight of his arm over my hip, the soft, soothing murmur of his words which I couldn't quite recall at the moment.

Maybe it was the drugs finally kicking in, or maybe it was just the plain simple fact that I was helplessly attracted to Brandon, but I couldn't stop my feet until I came right up against him. My hands gently grasped his forearms as I slowly stood up on my toes and brushed a featherlight kiss on the corner of his mouth.

I felt his muscles tense under my fingers but he didn't pull away. Instead, he tilted his face toward me slightly so that our lips met for a fraction of a second—one that stretched on for an eternity—before he pulled back slightly to angle for a deeper kiss.

Sounds of throats being cleared imploded into my consciousness and I abruptly reared back, wincing at the shaft of pain on my midsection at the sudden twist of my torso.

I glanced at the laptop and gasped out loud in horror.

Oh, crap! Kill me now, please. Death by absolute mortification.

A conference room full of about five or six people stared back at us, some looking slack-jawed and others looking at everything but us. Even with half of Brandon's body covering mine and the countertop hiding me from the waist down, I still looked like a splendid mess who was mashing faces with their boss.

Brandon quickly recovered, setting down his ladle and wedging his body between me and the counter to block me from the view of our audience.

"Everyone, finish the rest of the discussion and email me the bid," he said with a resigned sigh as he leaned forward, reaching for the laptop. I could hear the amusement in his voice as he added, "My lady's awake and I'm all hers for the rest of the day. Goodbye."

I peeked over his arm and saw that the screen was now off just as he was lowering the screen close.

"All mine for the day, huh?" I blurted out as I stepped around from behind him. "What are your people going to think now? That I'm a needy bitch? Or a regular hussy who waltzes around your place practically naked?"

He smiled. "They're going to think that you are the poor, sick, little fiancee I'm nursing back to health. You're the explanation as to why I'm working from home today and why I'm wearing a damn apron and making lasagna in the middle of our meeting."

I bit my lip, softened by his admission, and glanced at the food he was making. "Do you know that I love home-made lasagna?"

He smirked and picked up the ladle again to finish pouring the sauce all over the pasta. "I know. Aimee told me. Why do you think I'm making it right now when there's more than a dozen other things I can make that take less time and work?"

"I don't think resentment is a secret ingredient to making it taste better," I grumbled with a roll of my eyes. "No one asked you, you know? I can just eat those chicken cup noodles."

He grinned and tweaked my nose. "I have those too which I can heat up for you right now because if the earthquake rumbling from your stomach is any indication, you're most likely starving."

"Sit and I'll get it ready for you," he said, pointing to one of the high stools that lined one side of the breakfast bar. "The lasagna's for dinner. Plus, there's chocolate mousse chilling in the fridge for dessert later."

I narrowed my eyes, fighting the thrill that shot through my heart. "Wait, is this reality? Did I hit my head last night? Or is this one of those Matrix moments?"

"Matrix moments?" Brandon repeated with a wry smile as he set the electric kettle on before placing a cup of instant chicken noodles on a plate with a spoon and fork in front of me. "I was worried that you'd to be out of it today with all your pain meds but I think you're back, Charlotte."

I wrinkled my nose at him. "Did you think I was going to be so doped up I'd be floaty-feely and giddy with you?"

"I was just hoping you'd be a little less guarded so you won't protest too much when I do this."

"Do what—"

Kissing clearly had therapeutic effects because I promptly forgot my aching midsection as well as my growling stomach the moment Brandon leaned down and took my mouth for a proper, toe-curling kiss, his arms gathering around me gently and his tongue coaxing me to give back as good as I was getting.

"W-what was that for?" I breathed as we pulled away slightly, my tongue swiping my bottom lip which felt a bit swollen.

"That's for frightening the life out of me last night," he murmured huskily before he kissed me hard again.

My heart was pounding so fast, I couldn't hear anything else but that and the ragged breaths between us. "And that one?"

"That's for not taking care of yourself last night at the hospital because you didn't want to pay the bill."

I clung to him as he pulled me in for another kiss, my fingers curling around his shirt tightly. "Another offense?"

"That's for being so stubborn and fighting me at every turn like ensuring your safety."

Another fevered kiss.

"That's for being too cozy with Jake when you know he wants you."

"He doesn't want me," I protested before I leaned back against the counter to give Brandon more access. "Not in that way."

He slayed me with another deep, mind-shattering kiss. "That's for being so naive and trusting people so easily, myself included."

I raised a brow as we broke our kiss for a second. "If you're punishing me with a kiss for every single thing you count as my offense to you, we'd be at this all day and night."

He grinned. "I know. I never thought I'd enjoy counting up the tally of your sins."

I kissed him noisily before giving him a light shove on his chest with my hand that was only bandaged for small cuts that didn't even hurt that much anymore. "I'm not repenting for what I don't consider my sins."

"Trust you to claim innocence," he said with a laugh before leaning down to touch his forehead against mine.

His eyes softened. "But seriously, how are you doing, Charlotte? Are you in a lot of pain? Should we see the doc—"

"It definitely still hurts but the painkillers are doing their job as best as they can," I admitted after pressing my fingertips against his lips. "I'll be alright. It's not my first rodeo."

Damn. You just had to blurt that out.

The moment Brandon's eyes flashed with suspicion, I knew he'd caught on.

His mouth set into a grim line. "What exactly do you mean by that, Charlotte?"

I looked away and concentrated on slowly tearing open half of the foil lid on the noodle cup. "Nothing, Brand. Don't worry about it."

"You don't say something like that to me and expect me not to worry about it," he ground out angrily. "Tell me, Charlotte. Has someone hurt you before?"

"Is the hot water ready?" I asked, glancing at the other side of the counter to where the kettle had shut off after boiling.

"Don't evade the question, Charlotte!"

I glared at him. "Can't you at least feed me first before you make me confess all my deepest, darkest demons, not that I have many nor that any of them are your concern?"

He didn't look happy but he backed off and grabbed the kettle, pouring the hot water into the cup and letting me seal it back to cook the noodles for a few minutes.

He slid on the stool next to me, folding his arms over the counter.

"And before you start, I'll need all the names and possible locations so I can find them and make them pay," he said, his calm, even voice intimidating me more than his explosive temper flares.

I snorted and picked up my fork. It was a bit awkard to eat with my bandaged palm but it was manageable. "You can't really kill someone who's already dead and rotting six feet in the ground, Brand, but I appreciate the thought."

"It was your father."

"Amazing, isn't it, that the very person you counted on to protect you was the same one who occasionally took a swing at you," I said with a short, ironic laugh. "The pain that hurts the worst is usually inflicted by those you care for the most. There's nothing like it in the world."

I glanced up at him and saw that his expression was murderous. "Hey, it's over. He can't hurt me anymore. And don't picture me out as some poor kid growing up as her father's punching bag. It really wasn't that bad."

"Your own father laying a hand on you wasn't that bad?" he asked slowly and incredulously.

I shook my head. "All I'm saying is that it could've been so much worse, like he could've killed me. At first he mostly just shoved me around when he was drunk out of his mind. I got knocked around a few times when I was stupid enough to have been home and get in his way, yelling his ear off to clean up his act."

Brandon was silent for a while but there was nothing calm or peaceful about him at all—not when his jaw was as hard as granite.

"What else?" he asked.

What good is there to hold back now? You opened your big mouth. Might as well spit it out while you still have the guts to.

"A few months before I was set to graduate high school, I approached him about going to Paris," I said slowly, peeling back a small section of the lid to check on the noodles. "Mr. Schubert knew someone in Paris who worked as an administrator for a pastry school there. He got me signed up and I had enough savings to at least get started there. I figured I could pay my way by working at the pastry school at whatever capacity was needed or find other jobs if I had to."

Finding the noodles not quite cooked yet, I sighed and rolled the lid back down, darting a glance at Brandon who was sitting there almost stoically if not for the angry gleam in his eyes.

"Dad didn't like the idea," I continued. "He told me I needed to stay here and get a real job, help pay for the house and the bills. He told me he got me a receptionist position at his friend's mechanic shop where I know half a dozen girls go through each year, leaving one after another once Lloyd, the owner's son, had tapped them. If I took that job, I would've murdered him before the week was over and I didn't really want to spend the rest of my life behind bars, no matter how worthy the cause."

"Your father should've never suggested it. He shouldn't even have wasted a second thinking about it," Brandon seethed.

I gave him a grateful smile. "Yeah, well. I don't know if he really knew what was going on there. He had barely been sober enough to find his way home most days."

Expecting the usual pain from the memories, I took a deep breath to ready myself for the onslaught but there was none of that. All I felt was heavy disappointment and regret and maybe a hint of sadness for what my father could've been for me.

"When I fought him over it, he wasn't thrilled. Since you've been frequently on the other end of an argument with me, you know how unpleasant I could be when provoked and that particular night, I was a little more enthusiastic about my opinion than usual," I told him with a cheeky grin but Brandon's expression barely changed from black fury. In fact, he looked even more enraged than I thought possible.

I let out a long sigh, aware that no matter how I phrased what I was going to say next, it wasn't going to improve Brandon's feelings about my father. He was going to be so angry—as angry as I had once been—and I didn't want that weighing heavily on him.

"I told him I would go to Paris after graduation anyway, whether he agreed or not, and that was the first time he really looked at me and saw me," I said, chewing on my bottom lip, waiting nervously for Brandon's reaction. "I was very aware that he knew it was me he was backhanding—that he knew it was his only child he was grabbing by the hair and holding face down on the sofa as he lashed at me with his other hand, landing blows anywhere on my body he could come into contact with."

I swallowed hard as Brandon's fist clenched so tightly his knuckles were white and bloodless.