The bathroom is all white marble and gleaming chrome, with a shower big enough for four people. I strip quickly, avoiding my reflection in the full-length mirror, and step under the rainfall showerhead.
Hot water cascades over me, washing away the night’s tension but doing nothing to ease the persistent thrumming under my skin. I use the toiletries lined up in elegant glass bottles, breathing in the scent of jasmine and vanilla. Is this what Ronan likes? Did he choose these scents specifically for this room, or does some invisible staff handle these details?
After toweling off, I discover the dresser contains neatly folded clothes.
I select the softest pair of pajamas—pale blue silk that feels like water against my skin—and climb into bed. The sheets are cool and smooth, the weight of the duvet perfect for snuggling in.
Yet I can’t sleep.
Is Ronan already asleep? The thought bothers me more than it should. I picture him across the hall, perhaps lying in his own bed, staring at his own ceiling. Or maybe he's working. Men like him probably don’t sleep much.
God, why am I even thinking about him? I really need to?—
My stomach growls loudly, interrupting my thoughts. I haven’t eaten since a sad package of cheese and crackers more than twelve hours ago. The hunger pangs had disappeared during the stress of the auction, but now they’re back with a vengeance.
Ugh, perfect.
After twenty more minutes of tossing and turning, I surrender. Food first, then sleep.
I pad barefoot down the hallway, trying to make as little noise as possible. I seriously don’t want to wake anyone up, especially Ronan. The mansion is eerily quiet at night, my footsteps muffled by plush carpet. Moonlight streams through massive windows, casting long shadows across marble floors. I trail my fingers along cool walls for guidance.
When I finally find the kitchen, it’s like entering another world. All sleek surfaces and state-of-the-art appliances gleaming in the dim light. I flip a switch, and subtle under-cabinet lighting illuminates the space with a warm glow.
Well, damn.
So this is how rich people live. This kitchen alone is probably more expensive than an entire year of Mom’s treatments.
The refrigerator is a stainless-steel monolith. I open it to find it fully stocked—fresh produce, dairy, meats, all meticulously organized. After a quick survey, I gather ingredients for a simple omelet. Eggs, cheese, spinach, mushrooms. Basic comfort food. After living off ramen and canned beans for weeks now, this actually feels like a Michelin-star meal to me.
I find a bowl in a cabinet and whisk the eggs with a splash of milk. The familiar motions calm me. This, at least, I know how to do. The butter sizzles as it hits the pan, filling the kitchen with its rich aroma.
“Couldn’t sleep?”
I nearly drop the spatula at the sound of Ronan’s voice behind me. I turn slowly, and my mouth goes dry.
He stands in the doorway, barefoot, wearing only black pajama bottoms that hang low on his hips. His chest—dear God, his chest—is bare, revealing muscles that look carved from marble and a scattering of tattoos across his left pectoral and shoulder. One snakes down his right bicep, disappearing around his elbow. His dark hair is slightly mussed, and the shadow of stubble along his jaw has deepened since earlier.
Holy mother of…
How is he even real?
I never understood my girlfriends who drooled over men on magazines, TV shows, and billboards. But right now, I have to physically stop my jaw from hanging.
I get it, girls. I get it now.
“I—” My voice fails me. I clear my throat and try again. “I was hungry.”
Hungry. Right. A minute ago, for omelet. But now, for something else.
Ronan moves into the kitchen with the fluid grace of a predator, all controlled power. “The auction organizers are supposed to feed the participants.”
“They offered cheese and crackers around noon. Not exactly sustaining.”
A flash of something—anger?—crosses his face, but it’s gone so quickly I might have imagined it. He leans against the counter, crossing his arms over his chest. The movement makes his muscles shift and flex, and I force myself to look away before I start drooling.
My core clenches, and I’m pretty sure I just soaked my panties. God, I’m wet, and he hasn’t even touched me yet.
“You should have said something in the car. We could have stopped.”
