This wasn’t a matter of belonging anymore. This was a matter of survival. Protection. Hunt the threat. Though, when she woke up, he might very well find himself staring at the black eye of her pistol.
Christ, he didn’t know how to string sentences together that weren’t either commands, warnings, blunt facts, or sarcasm. Commands wouldn’t work, and sarcasm was out of the question. What was left to him was blunt facts and warnings. State a blunt fact, then follow up with a warning?
His gaze shifted to her face when she moved in her sleep, brow furrowing. He balled his hands into fists before he attempted to smooth the furrow for her.
Just who are you, Miss Turner?
“I’ve maimed men for less than what you made me feel,” he muttered softly.
She stirred again, her lashes fluttering.
Maxen froze, then his mouth twisted, bitter with self-loathing. Maybe she’d wake. Maybe she’d sleep through the night. Maybe she’d send him away. Maybe she’d hear the words he hadn’t even figured out how to say. There simply was no control where she was concerned. She dismantled everything.
But he would wait.
For once in his bloody, brutal life, he chose not to deny himself.
“You can’t leave Brighton, Miss Turner. Not before I peel away each and every one of your secrets.”
Chapter Fifteen
Calliope woke withthe creeping sense that she wasn’t alone. Not in the comforting sense of Prince curled at her side, but something...else. She opened her eyes to the morning light spilling through the curtains. However, the room held a dark, intruding, provocative scent that hadn’t been there before. She shifted and grimaced, the coarse fabric of men’s attire chafing in places no sensible garment should.
She nearly bolted upright when her gaze landed on a man.
A man.
A large man.
Right there. Beside her bed. Slumped in the chair like he had every right to be there, arms crossed, legs stretched out, head tilted just so.
Her breath caught somewhere between her lungs and heart.
Maxen was asleep. Or appeared to be. But even in this state, he looked like a predator only at rest. Honestly, the man resembled a sleeping beast out of a nightmare, or—ahem—a dream she should never admit to having. Heh. His face was all harsh angles and deep shadows in the soft light, his jaw rough with stubble and brows slightly drawn. He looked almost... tired. No. He lookedworn.
And Prince?
She levered up onto her elbows and found him still curled at her side. Traitorous hound. “You’re supposed to bark at intruders,” shemuttered softly. “Or growl.” Certainly alert her.
She glanced back at Maxen, only to jerk.
His dark gaze pinned her in place. Sharp. Alert. As though he’d merely rested his eyes but never truly slept.
“How long have you been there?” she croaked. Wrong question, Calliope!
“Long enough,” he said, his voice a low rasp that dragged across her nerves. And there it was again. A frisson of tension. That thing sparking between them with peril and promise and a heartbeat of its own.
She found the sensation both intolerable and craved it desperately like breath.
The charge robbed her tongue of sense, since instead of scolding the man for entering her room like a thief, she asked, “How in heaven’s name did you find me?” Down to her room, no less!
Not the barest muscle stirred. “Did you truly believe I couldn’t?”
“Well . . .” Honestly. “Brighton is rather large.”
“Not large enough.”
“It’s the wanting to find me at all that I cannot quite grasp. You shouldn’t be here.”
