Chapter 2 - GLASS AND DEFIANCE
Desmond’s jaw tightened at her casual defiance. For six long months, doctors, physical therapists, and family members had tiptoed around his explosive temper, speaking to him in muted, pitying tones that drove him into a quiet, simmering rage. He despised weakness, and above all, he despised being treated like a broken patient inside his own fortress.
With a slow, deliberate movement, Desmond reached his broad, tattooed right hand toward the small marble side table next to his wheelchair, intending to pick up a heavy crystal tumbler half-filled with neat amber whiskey.
His thick forearm tensed, but as his fingers brushed the cut glass, a sudden, involuntary tremor shook his muscular hand. The nerve damage from his spinal trauma sent an erratic spike down his nerve pathways.
His fingers failed to grip the heavy crystal.
Clatter! Crack!
The heavy crystal tumbler slipped from his grasp, striking the edge of the marble table before crashing onto the dark oak hardwood floor between them. It shattered into a dozens of sharp, glittering shards, splashing cold whiskey across the floor and soaking the hem of Emma's practical work shoes.
The silence that followed was absolute.
Desmond froze, his hand suspended in mid-air above the table. His icy blue eyes turned instantly cold, a dark flush of embarrassment and sharp anger rising along his tattooed neck. He lowered his hand back into his lap under the gray blanket and stared down at Emma with an expression of pure, unadulterated arrogance.
"Clean it up," Desmond commanded smoothly, testing her, trying to break her calm demeanor and reassert his absolute authority over the room.
Emma looked down at the broken glass reflecting the golden sunlight. The liquid pooled around her soles, smelling sharply of aged alcohol and ruined pride.
She looked up from the floor, meeting his cold, piercing gaze without blinking.
May you like
"No," Emma said simply.
Desmond’s expression immediately hardened into stone.
