A long moment passed. Then Nick moved toward the door. His hand rested on the knob.
“There are sedatives in your grooming case, should she wake distressed.”
“That won’t be necessary.”
Nick paused. “As you wish.” The door opened and closed quietly.
Jack stood in silence.
The fire crackled, throwing shadows across the walls like Plato’s cave. Rain slowed its assault against the windows, sliding in dreary surrender down the dark glass.
His phone buzzed in his pocket, but Daisy still didn’t stir. The screen glowed blue in the dark. Hunter Volkov. It pulsed like a heartbeat in his palm, demanding an answer.
Jack silenced the call and set the phone beside the medical supplies kit.
His fingers peeled back the edge of wet fabric blanketing her, firelight painting her in shades of gold and shadow.
Remnants of The Becoming clung to her like imprinted memories, worn thin by time. The dove-grey bra covered her skin like moonlight, translucent where water had soaked through, revealing the dusky peaks of her nipples beneath the gossamer-thin covering. Delicate lace darkened by rain, and tiny pearls caught the light like scattered stars.
Below her defined ribs, the intricate garter belt hugged her narrow waist, its silk tapes still clipped to what remained of her sheer stockings, shredded at the calf from hours of running. A mud-stained tear showed a scrape at the knee. The lace trim hung in tatters around her bruised thighs.
His gaze roamed higher, deliberately staring at the apex of her thighs where downy curls lay like soft golden feathers. No barrier of satin and ribbon covered her from view. Just bare skin, pale as moonlight, and a delicate thatch of hair.
The tributes were typically waxed smooth. He knew this because he approved every detail of The Becoming, with advice from beauty experts from around the world to ensure nothing was overlooked.
But she had kept this.
His finger twitched, the temptation to touch what she somehow managed to save urging him to test the softness. Instead, he balled his hand into a tight fist, forcing each of his knuckles to pop.
A small defiance that stirred his blood. Not smooth, like a girl, but lush and feminine, like a woman.
Heat pooled low in his belly despite the cold still rattling his bones.
Earrings glinted at her lobes. Delicate crystal drops that caught the firelight and threw tiny rainbows across her collarbone. Someone had chosen them to complement her mask and gown. Both gone now.
No more illusions.
Only truth remained.
Jack’s gaze traveled back to her face. To the bruise darkening her cheek. To the blood crusted at her temple. To the soft part of her lips as shallow breaths escaped.
He should cover her. Locate his abandoned composure.
His hand moved of its own accord. Fingers trembling from cold and nothing more.
He ignored the lie as much as he ignored the jacket and bedcovers. Slowly, he reached toward the swell of her breast, the wet lace rising and falling with each deep breath.
Closer.
His fingers extended, hovering a mere breath away from the sharp point of her nipple, when her gasp cut through the air like a knife, severing his focus.
His gaze locked with her pale, wild eyes, bright with terror, and dark accusation.
Excuses died in his throat as language deserted him.
He’d forgotten the weight of guilt like this, but shame was an old, familiar friend he knew intimately by name. And he swallowed it down with a lift of his chin, just like he’d done when he was a boy.
Chapter Twenty
