I raise my chin defensively. “I’m fine.” A flurry of questions threatens to spill out. Like why the hell are you punishing your own man for trying to hurt a maid? Why do you care? What’s your angle?
But I bite my tongue. Better not to draw any more of his attention—not with how suspicious he already is. I still can’t believe he could tell I was trained.
How long was he watching me?
“Can I help you with something?” I ask when he just stands there scrutinizing me with unsettling intensity.
He doesn’t answer. Instead, he steps into the study, purposely brushing his shoulder against mine as he passes. The contact is brief but electric—I jolt back like I’ve been burned, my heart contracting so hard it’s almost painful.
What the hell was that?
But he’s already moving away, leaving only his scent—leather mixed with cigar and something indefinable, intoxicating—lingering with me as he walks along the room’s perimeter towards the towering bookshelves.
I notice how carefully he stays near the walls, avoiding the wet floor I just cleaned.
Damn him. Why’s he being considerate?
My gaze tracks him helplessly, unwillingly captivated by the way his muscles shift and flex beneath that leather jacket.
“I realize I didn’t get the chance to apologize to you last night,” he begins as he drags one long finger down a book’s spine.
For some insane reason, the sight conjures an image of that same finger dragging down my belly. Heat coils low, and I quickly shake my head, horrified by my own thoughts.
Attraction is one thing. Fantasizing while he’s right in front of me—in broad daylight, no less—is madness.
Then his actual words penetrate my hormone-addled brain. Apologize to me? “Why would you apologize to me?”
He drops his hand from the shelf and turns to face me, auburn brows pulled together in an expression that’s almost… concerned. “For what happened last night. WithFrederik.”
I tilt my head at him, surprised at this turn of events. “That wasn’t your fault.”
“As long as you’re living inside my estate, you’re under my protection and shouldn’t have to defend yourself against my men.” His voice is firm, absolute. “You don’t have to worryabout Frederik again—he’s being dealt with appropriately. And no one else will give you oranyof the other maids trouble. I’ll make sure of it.”
Huh.
I’m lowkey impressed by the way he’s handling this. I expected interrogation, blame—questions about what I said or did to catch Frederik’s attention, maybe even the classic accusation that I provoked him. Worse, I half-braced for him to dig into where I learned to fight.
Instead, he’s… protecting me.
It throws me, seeing him like this—so cool–headed, logical. Not at all the man I thought I’d be dealing with.
My brows knit as I remember Esma’s words. Is he going to tell his men why he’s punishing Frederik? “What are you going to do with him?” I ask, curiosity getting the better of my caution.
Roan glances over, a smirk playing on his lips. “Why? You want to hit him some more?”
My own lips quirk despite myself. “I’m not that bloodthirsty.”
His chuckle is low as he faces the shelves again. “That remains to be seen.”
Is he… joking with me?
He drifts down the aisle, running his fingers along the spines as he goes. I can’t help staring, caught up in the ease of his movements. How does he make even that look so damn enticing?
“Do you read?”
I shake my head, then realize he’s not even looking at me—he’s too focused on scanning the titles. A frown settles in as I answer, “I’ve never really had time for that, no. Too busy surviving.”
That gets his attention. He pivots slightly, head tilted, studying me long enough to dry out my throat. A soft curl slipsloose to brush his brow, and my fingers twitch with the overwhelming urge to tuck it back into the bun, to feel the texture. I clench my hands into fists instead to stop myself from doing something catastrophically stupid.
