Clearly, I’ve lost my poker face in all the months living alone, because she huffs and slides off my lap. “Don’t look so shocked. I’m allowed to want things.”
“I…shit. Of course you are. But—”
“My life hasn’t been my own for three years, Wyatt. I didn’t get to pick what I wanted to eat. What I wore. What time I got up in the morning. I didn’t get sick days or vacation time or anything that couldn’t be taken away in a heartbeat.”
She scoots to the edge of the bed and swings her legs over the side. Despite almost dying two days ago, she stands easily and turns to me. “By tomorrow, I’ll be safe, sure. According to you, anyway. But I won’t be free. Right now? I’m free. I thought you’d understand.”
The sadness in her eyes steals my breath. Before I can find my words, she slips into the bathroom and locks the door.
9
Hope
Walking away from Wyatt feels wrong. My heart pounds half out of my chest, and I’m so turned on, I can’t think straight. Until I turn my gaze to his bathtub.
It’s every woman’s fantasy. Deep enough for me to sink into hot water up to my neck. After I start the tap, I strip out of his clothes. Did he wash mine last night? I fell asleep so quickly after dinner, I have no idea. The idea of wearing the clothes Simon bought me—clothes that had my blood all over them—makes my skin crawl.
And then I hear his voice in my memories.
“You need a new wardrobe, my sweet,” Simon announces as he breezes into the bedroom, several garment bags draped over his arm. “I took the liberty. Change into something more…appropriate before dinner.”
Unzipping one bag after another, I find nothing but silk, cashmere, and linen. No jeans. No sweatshirts. Two of the staff rush in, one carrying four shoe boxes, the other making a beeline for my closet.
My jaw drops as they proceed to toss everything I own into the laundry cart. “Stop! What are you doing?” I snatch my UCLA sweatshirt out of Bettina’s hands and clutch it to my chest.
“Your wardrobe is abhorrent. You will not wear that and be seen with me.” Simon tries to take the sweatshirt from me, but I hold tight. “Hope…”
“No. Not this one. I won’t wear it out of the house. Or where anyone can see me. Please…” Tears prick at my eyes. How much more can he take from me? Sure, I have my own bedroom—complete with a luxurious en-suite bath and thousand thread-count sheets, but he won’t let me leave the house, drive his cars, doesn’t want me to work unless it’s for him, and now…this?
“Fine. You may keep that one. But you are not to leave this room wearing it. Hurry up and change. Dinner is in ten minutes.”
The cabin door slams, pulling me from my memories, and I scramble to turn off the faucet before sinking into the tub with a moan. This is pure heaven. With my injured arm draped over the side, I settle deeper so the hot water can soothe all my sore muscles.
Wyatt moves around in the next room, heavy footsteps and his deep voice—talking to Murphy, I assume—reassuring. Even if I am frustrated with him.
I didn’t realize how much I needed to be touched. How much I’d missed it. Not until Wyatt held me all night.
Even before he trapped me, Simon was never tender. We kissed. Had sex. Held hands in public—when he used to let me leave the house. But he never stroked my cheek. Never rubbed my back. Never cuddled. He preferred using his fists.
Wyatt is his opposite in every way. He doesn’t have the smooth, perfect words. For all his swagger and physical strength, he’s awkward as hell around me. Like he’s constantly worried he’s going to say the wrong thing.
Oh, shit. He is.
I sit up so quickly, a few drops of water splash onto the floor. Everything makes sense now. Has he ever had a girlfriend? Been close to anyone he didn’t serve with? I need to ask him.
When the water starts to cool, I wrap myself in a thick, dark blue towel. Washing the blood out of my hair in the sink takes all the energy I have left, and by the time I pull on Wyatt’s robe and trudge out to the kitchen, I’m practically shaking.
The only thing keeping me going? The delicious scents wafting from the stove.
“Is that more bacon?” I ask. “You’re spoiling me.” The room starts to spin, and I stumble, but Murphy’s right there, leaning against my legs to help keep me upright.
“Hope! Dammit. I knew I shouldn’t have left you alone.” Wyatt’s hands mold to my hips, and he’s so close, his warmth seeps into me through the robe. “How bad is it?”
“I’m just a little dizzy. Nothing breakfast won’t fix.”
“Fucking hell,” he mutters as he guides me to the table and pulls out a chair. “You need more than a plate of bacon and some eggs. You need a doctor.”
Great. Grumpy, surly, closed-off Wyatt is back. The kind, gentle, warm man who held me all night and made me feel alive for the first time in forever went AWOL, and I don’t know how to get him back.
