She shouldn’t.
She’d be safer in my bedroom. Safer in my bed, where I could keep her pressed against me all night long. The thought is poison and fire, spreading through me before I can kill it.
I force myself back a step, bracing myself against the doorframe. “Get some rest.”
“No one knows we’re here, right?” she asks.
“No. If anything happens or anyone arrives, I’ll hear it?—”
“What’s going to happen?” she asks a bit sharper this time.
“And if you need anything, just knock.”
Emery’s full, pink lips part, like she’s crafting an argument. She studies me and doesn’t say a word. Heat flares in her eyes, sending a shot to my groin.
Knock it off. You need to protect her.
Emery deserves more than half-answers and cryptic warnings. But if I give her the truth right now, I’ll lose her before I figure out how to keep her alive.
Emery
The urge to chase after Declan and demand answers—or beg to stay in his room with him—tugs at me. I bite my lip to keep the words from spilling out. Once Declan leaves, the room’s too quiet. I pull out my phone and set it on the nightstand.
A soft knock sends me whirling. Declan pushes the door open without waiting for me to answer, a folded stack of clothes in his hands.
“Something for you to sleep in.”
I eye the pile as he sets it on the foot of the bed. It appears to be two T-shirts, a pair of gray sweatpants, and a rolled-up pair of black socks patterned with what looks like little green Sasquatch silhouettes.
“Are theseSasquatchsocks?” I ask, unrolling them slowly for dramatic effect. Surely this grumpy man’s too serious to have something silly like Sasquatch socks in his drawer.
He ducks his head and rubs his hand over the back of his neck. “Yeah, gag gift from a friend. They’ll probably be too big on you, but I thought in case your feet get cold…”
He’s worried about my feet? He has to be the most considerate crazy person I’ve ever met. Crazy—right? All of this is nuts. Why did I willingly go along with it?
The faint burning around my wrist draws my attention.Thisis why. There has to be a logical explanation for it. Therehasto be.
I need to call Wren and at least let her know where I am. Just in case the hot, brooding tattoo artist turns out to be an ax-wielding maniac. At least she’ll know where to direct the police to look for my scattered body parts.
“Thanks.” I gesture toward the clothes. “How long are we staying here?”
“Just tonight,” he answers without hesitating. “I’ll figure out something.”
So, not a long-term solution to whatever’s happening.
He remains in the doorway, his gaze flicking from my face to my wrist, then to the clothes. His clothes. Heat roams over my skin.
“Are you planning to watch me change?” There’s no bite to my tone. It sounds more like I’m inviting him to stay.
“Goodnight, Emery.” He steps out and closes the door behind him.
The silence of the Sterling house presses in as I wander around the spacious room. The bed dominates the space, the intricately carved iron posts painted gold. I hope I don’t get a toe stuck in one of those narrow filigrees while I’m sleeping.
At the foot of the bed sits a massive trunk with iron bands etched in curling patterns. My fingers brush the cold metal, half expecting it to hum with the same energy that dances in my wrist.
The mirror above the dresser catches my eye. I walk closer and hold up my hand. The green ring still glows faintly, like a stubborn bruise. Arnica cream won’t make this go away.
My eyes burn and tension bands around my head. Yawning, I pull my sweater up over my head and unhook my bra. Sweetrelief from freeing the girls from their satin prison flows over my skin.
