My jaw tightens as I grind my teeth against the frustration threatening to bubble over. He’s still not back. He probably isn’t coming back anytime soon. My nails dig into the edge of the bathrobe belt as I take a slow, deliberate breath. In. Out. Calm.
A soft, sleepy giggle bubbles out next to me— “Hehehe,” light and breathy, the unmistakable sound of a child laughing in his dreams.
I freeze for a second, turning my head to look down at Elijah. He’s curled up on his side, just inches away, one tiny hand still clutching his battered soft toy. A big, wide smile spreads across his face, so pure and happy it almost makes me forget the storm raging in my chest.
I scoff quietly, pressing a kiss to his chubby cheek. His skin is impossibly soft, baby powder warm, and it makes me want to wrap him in my arms and shield him from everything. Instead, I gently adjust the Pokémon toy in his hand to make sure it stays close to him.
“Sweet dreams, kiddo,” I murmur under my breath.
Carefully, I ease back onto my side of the bed, sinking into the impossibly soft mattress.
Step one: Close your eyes.
Step two: Don’t think about him.
Step three: Sleep. Easy. Logical. Just shut it all down like a computer.
My eyelids flutter shut.
Nothing.
I crack one eye open. Okay, step one isn’t going so well. My gaze flickers toward the lamp, the soft light catching on the satin of my nightgown.
Ugh. The damn nightgown.
I snort softly to myself, shaking my head.
What kind of idiot buys this? Oh, wait, me. The idiot in question.
It had seemed like such a great idea at the Chanel store. A little retail therapy to shove in Leonid’s face, grabbing every tiny, impractical piece I could find just to piss him off. But now? This white satin monstrosity is my penance. A size too small, it clings to me like shrink wrap, the hem barely clearing the curve of my ass. If I move wrong, I’ll give the whole room a peep show.
I pull the bathrobe tighter around me, but not before running my fingers over the fabric again, the silk cool and smooth against my skin. Like his hands would be, probably. Those big, warm palms sliding over the satin, bunching it up as he—
Jesus Christ, Clara, get it together.
This is the same man who’s probably lettingFionadrape herself all over him right now.
The same man who’s keeping us here against our will. The same infuriating, arrogant, impossibly sexy—
Stop. It.
I flop back against the pillows, staring at the ceiling.
Step one: Close your eyes.
Step two: Don’t think about him.
Step three— Fuck, coffee. Did I have coffee? I didn’t have coffee. Why does it feel like I had coffee?
I press the heels of my hands to my eyes, groaning softly. Sleep isn’t happening, and I know why. The knot in my stomach won’t go away until I get answers. This isn’t about petty grudges or satin nightgowns. It’s about Elijah. It’s about me.
Before I know it, I’m on my feet. The cool floor beneath my bare toes sends a small shiver up my spine, but I ignore it. I glance at the closet as I tie the robe tighter, half-tempted tothrow on something more appropriate. But no. Let him see me like this if it bothers him. He deserves a little discomfort.
I’ll just talk to him. That’s all.
Just a conversation.
A polite, calm inquiry about when exactly he plans to let us out of this place.
