Rhys caught her shoulders. “If they’re watching, they’d also expect a muse to attend her master after a long flight.”
It was a delay, but a plausible one. He grabbed a loofah, covered it with foaming soap, then brought her hands to his chest. As she washed him, they compared notes.
“The main house has more security than the manifest,” she said.
“I counted nine guards on approach,” he replied. “Rotating patrols. Two elevated posts.”
“I noticed security in the courtyard we passed.”
“Iron gate. Biometric scanner. One guard. The east wing, opposite to where we’re staying,” he said, having clocked it, too.
She looked up. “Muse facilities?”
If Natalie were here, Rhys knew in his gut, they’d find her there. Like a priceless gem, locked away and brought out only when Álvarez wanted to show it off.
He didn’t share everything his gut told him, merely, “That’s my read.”
She swallowed and nodded, centering herself. “Did you hear the maid call him ‘Majesty’?” she asked, unable to keep the contempt from her voice.
His jaw flexed. “Yes, which makes him dangerous.”
“And certifiable,” she added.
Once he’d rinsed, he swapped places with her, moving her under the water. The shower was roomy but not built for two, and his hand brushed her breast.
Her reaction was instant. His was impossible to hide. His desire rose long and hard between them.
“Sorry. That part’s out of my control.”
“It’s okay,” she whispered, meeting his gaze as her fingers closed around him.
“Gaby, you don’t have to.”
“Camille would,” she murmured. “And I want to.”
Neither of them could deny the pull, no matter how many times he tried to walk away.
That was the last thing he wanted now as he watched her sink to the tiles. She didn’t look away as she first licked the tip then encompassed him in the warmth of her mouth. He braced his hands against the wall, fighting instinct. The mission was his priority, yet the squeeze of her fingers, the constant suction, and the slow circling of her tongue made it impossible to focus.
How many times had he imagined this—having her beneath him again, or waking curled around her back, pressed to her warm, satiny skin?
Looking down, he saw her spiky dark lashes, her sun-kissed skin glistening with droplets, and her pink lips enveloping him. He slid his fingers into her wet curls. His intent wasn’t control. He wanted to anchor the emotion arcing between them, need and something deeper, before reality intruded.
Rhys relaxed into her touch, but it soon became too much. With an indistinct sound, he drew her up, lifting her easily and pressing her back to the tile. He slid inside her in one controlled motion, their eyes meeting as heat and hunger flared between them.
To anyone watching, it might look like possession. What they wouldn’t see was his struggle to hold back, and how quicklyhe was losing that battle. Because with her, control was starting to mean something different.
Chapter 19
They dressed for dinner in silence. Not strained this time, introspective.
Rhys stood at the mirror fastening his cuff links, impossibly elegant in a tailored tux—black jacket, white shirt, a hint of silver at his throat. It made him look less like a man on an undercover mission and more like someone born into privilege.
Her midnight silk gown clung to her hips, dipped low in the back, and slit high at one thigh. Not overly revealing or vulgar but calculated. A costume meant to flatter and impress, to reflect well on Blackwood, and to remind her of the role she played.
When they left the suite, she fell into position without thinking, a step behind him, eyes lowered.
She focused on his shoes as they walked. Black leather, impossibly polished, moving with unhurried confidence across the marble floors. A ridiculous detail to cling to, but it felt normal. And safer than looking up. Safer than letting the reality of where they were crash into her too soon.
