I dragged a hand over my face and let out a breath through my teeth. I crossed the room and sat on the edge of the bed instead, staring at the rumpled blanket like it had personally offended me.
He said it was a mistake.
The words landed again, sharp and stupid, like I hadn’t already swallowed them once.
A mistake.
Fine. Maybe it was.
But then why did he look at me like that?
Why did he give me his cut? Why did trouble sound like an endearment? Why did my body respond like a traitor every time I thought about his hands on me?
My throat burned, but not tears. Just heat. Just frustration.
Because I was mad at him. And I was mad at myself. And I was mad at the universe for giving me one soft, warm, terrifying moment with a man who had kidnapped me and letting it feel like the safest thing I’d had in a long time.
Which was messed up.
I lay back on the bed without planning to, staring at the ceiling, my arms folded tight over my chest like I could hold myself together that way.
This was Lock’s room. Lock’s bed. Lock’s rules.
And yet here I was, alone in it, like I belonged here.
That thought should’ve freaked me out.
It didn’t.
That should’ve freaked me out too.
My eyes dropped to the shirt I was still wearing… his shirt. It hung loose on me, soft and worn and stupidly familiar. It smelled like him in the worst way, because my body relaxed before my brain could argue.
I tugged at the hem, annoyed at myself for noticing.
You’re acting like this is a sleepover.
Except it wasn’t.
It was leverage.
That word cut through the haze like a reminder I didn’t want. Rowan’s word. Rowan’s plan.
Bring me the bastard who hurt Saint, or I keep your kid.
A week.
One week. Then I go back.
I stared at the wall, trying to picture it. Walking back into my father’s world with Lock’s touch still sitting under my skin.
My stomach rolled.
It wasn’t fear.
It was disappointment.
Because to Rowan, I was more like property.
