“Get out,” I command, but it’s weak.
I cross my arms over my chest as Grey steps up to me. He pulls them back down, seemingly unflustered by my half-nakedness, zeroing in on the redness on my skin.
“Oliver, get me a cold washcloth, please,” he demands while he hovers his fingers over the red on my cleavage. His gaze wanders to the almost-faded hickey he left on my collarbone, letting his thumb slide over it, making me shudder and my skin rise with gooseflesh as he whispers, “How bad does it hurt?”
The burn, or the memory of your mouth on me?
Oliver is back on my other side with the washcloth, patting it against my skin. The cold is so soothing that I close my eyes on a soft whimper.
He presses it down a little firmer and keeps it there. “Better?”
I nod, eyes still closed, and the relief from the burn makes a tear run down my cheek.
God, I’m such a baby.
It’s not even that bad.
But it hurts.
Everything hurts.
I feel soft pressure as the tear is brushed away, and when I open my eyes, Grey’s face so close, his breath a whisper on my lips.
“Come on, sit down,” he murmurs.
Oliver steps over and guides me to the bed, his hand firm but gentle on my arm. I take the washcloth from him and hold it against my chest. Sitting down, a chill runs over my back, and I’m suddenly acutely aware of how little I’m wearing, feeling exposed in more ways than one.
Misha notices me shuddering and raises his hands to the front of his shirt, slowly unbuttoning it, keeping his eyes on methe entire time. His bare chest is now on display, dark chest hair contrasting with his tanned skin.
Looking so damn good.
I rub circles between my fingertips almost subconsciously, remembering how it felt to let my fingers glide through the softness. He wraps his shirt around my shoulders, enveloping me in his leafy rain scent, the fabric comforting, still warm from his body heat.
“Here, this will help,” he murmurs in a low rumble as he gently pulls my hair out from under the shirt. He adjusts it around me, making sure I’m covered before he meets my gaze, and for a moment, everything that happened fades away, and it really hits me.
They’re here.
In London.
Grey squats down in front of me and brings a hand to my cheek, his thumb brushing away another tear I didn’t notice slipping out. “We’ve got you, Amelia,” he whispers.
You’ve got me?
You’ve got me?
“Did you take it?” I whisper, the accusation thick in my throat.
Misha squats down next to Grey, confusion evident on his face. “Take what, Bug?”
“My AR project. My work. Did you steal it?”
I need to know.
Oliver sits next to me on the bed, his green eyes filled with hurt. “We would never do that to you. We came here to apologize, to explain?—”
“Explain what?” I cut him off, my voice way softer than it should be. “How you violated my trust? How you watched me without my consent? How you turned my life into some sort of twisted reality show?”
I can’t look at him anymore.
