This is by far the most uncomfortable night of my life. I don’t know how late it is, but it must not be terribly so, for the brothel is still very much active, as evidenced by the grunts and moans humming through the walls. Apparently, the Huntsman isn’t the only one wealthy enough to afford an overnight stay.
Since I only use my rented room during the day when Department Lust sees far less activity, I’ve never had to witness such…acoustics. Let me just say the sounds are far from soothing. Instead, they have my every muscle coiling tight while a strange heat dips low in my belly. I’m made all the more tense with how close I lay next to my aggravating captor, our cuffed hands less than a foot away. Unlike me, the Huntsman is soundly asleep. How the hell he can find slumber so easily in our situation is beyond me.
I glance over at his dozing form. I’ve had my eyes open ever since he turned off the lamps in the room, so they are well adjusted to the dark by now. Neither of us lies beneath the blankets, since the room is warm enough without them, so I can see his figure in its entirety. I watch the slow rise and fall of his broad chest before my eyes rove up to his face and land on his mouth. The sight of his slightly parted lips paired with the sounds of pleasure echoing beyond the walls fills my mind with a sudden curiosity of how he might kiss—
I avert my eyes, forcing them to the ceiling. Why would I be curious about how he’d kiss? It doesn’t matter that he’s handsome. That his beard is rather dashing, that his irises look like honey, and that his copper hair might be the prettiest shade I’ve ever seen. It certainly doesn’t matter that he’s strong and capable and killed an ogre to rescue me. He’s my captor. A bounty hunter. And the gruffest son of a harpy I’ve ever had the displeasure to meet. Not to mention, he almost tried to kill me.
The reminder cools my blood just enough to allow me to look at him without any unwelcome fantasies plaguing my mind. I even manage to stare down at his trousers without thinking about what lies beneath his underbritches. Well, I mostly manage not to think about that. Most of my attention is on his nearest pocket.
I stare at it for a few moments, trying to recall which side of his trousers he put the key into. After our conversation, I have no intention of running away. Not until he tells me if he’ll accept my proposition and let me help him find my father’s killer. In other words, proving it was Tris. I need him. But right now, what I need more than anything is some blooming sleep. And I’m certain I’ll sleep much better if I can free my wrist from my metal cuff and curl up on my side as far from the Huntsman as I can.
With slow moves, I inch slightly closer to him. He doesn’t react, doesn’t so much as draw a sharper breath. So I scoot closer, closer, trying to move the bed as little as possible. When only a few inches separate us, I bring a tentative hand toward his pocket. I hold my breath as I press my palm against his upper thigh. My eyes fly to his face, but he still doesn’t react, just keeps breathing deeply, sleeping soundly. And yet my heart falls, for I don’t feel the telltale shape of a key beneath my palm, not even his room key.
I slowly remove my hand and scowl at the opposite pocket, the one farthest away from me. I’d already suspected the key would be there, for I’m pretty sure I saw him pocket it with his free hand. That side of him will be much harder for me to reach without waking him.
I stare at him a few breaths longer before I dare scoot closer and lift myself to sitting. Every move is slow and careful as I do my best not to disturb his cuffed hand. When he still doesn’t react, I reach across him and softly lay my hand on his thigh.
Once again, no reaction.
A devious grin tugs my lips as I finally feel what I’m looking for. This is the pocket with the key. The next challenge will be extracting it.
Recalling how tight his pants are, I know it won’t be easy, especially with the unfortunate angle I’m at. There’s only so much leverage I can get from our horizontal positions while avoiding touching him or draping myself across him.
I glare at the pocket in question. Is a slightly more comfortable sleeping arrangement worth an attempt?
The moans from the room next door reach a crescendo. My heart thuds in response, and now I just want a distraction. So into his pocket I shall go.
Pouring all my focus into my task, I angle myself closer and plant my cuffed hand as close to his side as I can without tugging our chain. Then, propping one knee next to his hip, I bring my other between his legs. I pause, waiting to see if he’ll rouse, but he continues to sleep like a log. Confident that this man will sleep through anything, I shift my weight over him and bring my fingertips to his pocket’s opening. Then, inch my inch, I slide my hand inside—
Before I know what’s happening, I’m on my back, panting hard as the Huntsman looms over me. He has my wrists pinned over my head while his knees frame my hips. Only a fraction of his weight is upon me, for he remains partially on his side. His sudden closeness has my pulse racing. Adding to our suggestive position is my awareness of the way he hovers over me, his grip on my wrists, the sounds of panting pounding from behind the walls—no wait. The sound of heavy breathing isn’t coming from outside the room, but fromhim. Fromme. Our chests heave together for several moments. An earthy scent like soil and fur mingling with wood smoke fills my lungs, so potent it has my lashes fluttering.
I’m frozen as I stare up at him, his face only inches away. That’s when I realize…his eyes are closed. Is he still asleep?
His lips part and his low voice reverberates through me. “Go to sleep, Miss Snow.”
With that, he rolls off me and returns to his previous position on his back. Soon his breathing steadies and his face goes slack again.
I blink up at the ceiling, my breaths still far from even. Every inch of my body that was pressed against his tingles. Whether with rage or shock or excitement, I know not. All I know is there’s no way I’m going for that key again. He may be a sound sleeper, but his reflexes are too sharp, even during slumber.
Annoyance ripples through me, cutting through…whatever I started feeling when he rolled on top of me. How dare he sleep so deeply? How dare he fend off my attempts to gain some semblance of comfort? How dare he…be so large and heavy and…and to make my heart race?
I bite my bottom lip and slap my free hand over my forehead. It’s the Crimson Malus, isn’t it? My tincture is messing with my emotions, heightening my senses in the strangest ways. That’s all it is. I probably took too much.
Or did I not take enough?
My fingers flinch toward my skirt pocket.
Maybe just one more drop. What’s the worst that can happen? The last time I consumed more than three drops in the span of an hour, I slept longer than usual. Right now, I could use forced slumber.
I extract my vial with my free hand and place a single drop under my tongue. My body thrums with immediate relief, stripping me of all thoughts of my impossibly annoying, impossibly…handsome…no.
Impossibly…irresistible.
No.
My impossibly…
Irritating…
