Glancing down at his hands, I find my clothes neatly folded.
“You look better,” he says, stepping inside. “The color has come back to your face.”
“I’m starting to feel like myself.”
“That’s good. Here.” He hands me the clothing. “They’ve been washed and pressed.”
“Thanks.” They’re warm, smell clean and floral. “I think I’ll go home.”
His body instantly tenses. “No, you will not.” He moves closer, grabbing my chin, his thumb leisurely grazing my bottom lip. “You’ll stay until tomorrow. That way I can be sure you’re okay.”
His tone leaves no room for arguments, and quite honestly, I wouldn’t mind sleeping in this bed another night.
Especially if he held you…
No. Absolutely not.
But even though my mind wants to fight it, my body warms at the thought.
“How was the food?”
I’m immediately glad for the interruption his question offers.
“It was really good. Please thank your chef for me.”
“You’re welcome.” His smirk stretches.
I’m confused at first, my brows furrowing.
“I made it.”
My mouth pops open. “Really?”
“You sound surprised. Do I not seem like the kind of man who can cook a meal?”
A small laugh escapes me. “Not really, especially not one that doesn’t actually kill me.”
“See, it’s why I didn’t tell you it was me.” He laughs, dropping his hand away. “You wouldn’t have eaten it.”
“You’re probably right,” I admit with a reluctant laugh.
“Are you up to taking a walk?”
“Why?”
When I narrow my gaze, he continues. “I want to show you something.”
There should be hesitation. Maybe logic and distance and all the things I swore I’d uphold. But my fingers slide into his without resistance, and the moment our palms meet, heat blooms up my arm and settles in my chest.
We walk down a sweeping staircase, his hand in mine. Marble lies underfoot, iron banisters curling like black vines.
He doesn’t speak, and neither do I. But the silence crawls beneath my skin, winding tighter with every step.
Outside, the sun is too bright, the sky too blue. Like the world’s trying too hard to look normal. Something about it feels wrong, like it’s off-kilter, and I can’t explain why. But I feel it.
We pass through a glass door, and the backyard unfolds like something out of a painting.
But it isn’t a backyard. It’s an estate. Endless green stretching like it forgot the world beyond the fences. A stone fountain shaped like a lion glimmers in the distance, water pouring from its snarling mouth.
