I grew up with money. I know all the rules. The servants arenotyour friends. You don’t discuss personal, family matters with them, even though they live under the same roof as you, and probably know all about your family issues anyway.
Now I look at the gardener, and I just wish I had a friend.
“It’s a beautiful garden,” I say instead of asking him to stay and talk to me.
Going from an academy full of omegas where I always had someone to talk to, and before that, a house with a little sister I adore, to wandering aimlessly around a mansion alone, is a shock I have yet to recover from.
“It is,” the gardener agrees with a smile.
There’s no cruelty in his eyes, and because he isn’t gently but firmly pushing me away like Veronica, I feel myself relax a little. “You do a good job.”
He shrugs. “It’s just basic upkeep.”
“The orchids are beautiful.” My eyes linger on the delicate-looking purple flowers. “My parents have them in a big glass greenhouse, and they require a lot of maintenance.”
“They’re fussy,” the gardener agrees. “But that doesn’t mean they don’t appreciate touch.”
When I look at him, he’s staring back at me. He's no longer smiling, and there’s a new intensity in his gaze that wasn’t there before.
I study him, not sure what to say. Is he flirting with me? Should I get up and leave?
I start to get up because the unspoken look in his eyes is making me think it’s wrong that I’m here, talking to him.
Wrong that he’s looking at me like that.
Wrong that this is happening in my scent matches backyard.
“Orchids are special.” Holding my gaze, the gardener continues before I can return to the house, “But if you treat 'em right, give them the care they need, they’re the most beautiful flower to open up you’ve ever seen.”
“I—” The gardener’s eyes dart past me, and he takes a step back as I cry out when a hand grips my wrist and pulls me to my feet.
Archer.
He drags me into the house, and I have to run to keep up with his long, ground-eating strides. With his lips pressed into a flat line, he says not a word as he pulls me into the library, slams the door shut, and steps into me.
He stares down at me, and there’s a storm in his eyes that makes me want to run away. My gaze darts to the closed door inches away. As if he knows I’m planning to run, he rests his palms flat on the wall on either side of me, caging me in.
He bows his head, and my pulse leaps in response. I’d think he was getting ready to kiss me if he weren’t so furious. “It won’t work.”
I gulp and shake my head. “I don’t understand.”
“Flirting with the gardener. If you think flirting with him will get me to pay attention to you, it won’t work.”
That wasn’t what I was doing, and even if it had been my intention, it would have worked because heisnoticing me. His eyes are on me. His hands are gripping my arms. He’s close, his mouth inches from mine.
“I don’t want you,” he says, his gruff voice rough.
But he’s nuzzling me, his hands caressing my hips and his nose against my throat, sucking in huge, hungry gulps of the scent of my skin like he needs it to breathe.
I’m doing the same.
Wild forest and maple syrup. I love the way he smells too much to back away. Biology is short-circuiting both our brains, and I hate that I’m drowning in pure feeling as much as I love it.
My hands are on him. His back, his shoulders, and I’m rubbing myself against him. My pebbled nipples against his muscled chest. Nothing about his kiss is soft or gentle. It’s hard, unforgiving, and all-consuming.
I want to shove him away after everything he said to me, but I need this so badly.
With a hungry groan, he breaks the kiss and spins me around so I’m facing the bookshelf.
