Her fear is palpable. Intoxicating. I want to lean into it.
“Wouldn’t dream of it, princess. Just making sure you weren’t dying.”
She huffs, and I’m surprised by the way she relaxes in inches. But the realization that she thought I was her fiancé has my muscles tightening with a new, deeper anger. Saint told us who he is, and I’m already well versed in how he treats women.
What did he do to her?
And where can I find him to break his face?
“What does manhandling me have to do with making sure I’m not dying?” Her attitude curls more anger low in my stomach, but curiosity churns with it, and that’s dangerous.
For her.
For me.
For Saint.
He’s already claimed her. She’s in his bed after all. But I’m not sure I care.
When I don’t answer her, she stiffens again. “Well?”
“Didn’t need you bringing the house down with your screams. This place is full of wolves, and they’ll all come running.”
“You shouldn’t be in here,” she says, blinking as though the dark is clearing in her vision. Like she can finally see me. “You were out there, earlier.”
I almost smile but don’t, letting my chuckle come out cold. “Yeah, the whole club was out there watching you.”
She shakes her head. “Before I started playing. You were pointing your gun at me.”
Seconds after seeing her, the likelihood of my shooting her dwindled. Precautions being what they are, it became a prop to my watching her, defiant but afraid, clutching that violin case, then that violin, like it meant as much as her life.
I’ve never been attached to anything or anyone like that. At least, not in a long time.
I’m watching her now, how her hands curl into the sheets around her hips. She’s in one of Saint’s shirts, smells of his soap, but there’s something softer—moreher—underneath. I want to taste it.
“What’s your name?”
It’s not as if she couldn’t describe me to Saint if she wanted to make a complaint, but I don’t tell her anyway. She doesn’t need to know who I am. I don’t want to make the investment if she’s going to disappear as quickly as most of our rescues do.
“You don’t have to be a menace to be frightening.” Her voice is rough from the noises she made as she slept.
The thing is, I’m not trying to be frightening. I’m trying to be careful.
There’s a brittle part of me that’s been steady for years: don’t start with a woman who’s already been broken. Don’t be the reason she learns to break. Don’t be the next thing she flinches from.
“Fine. Don’t tell me. You can get out now.”
Her fire is a trap I want to fly right into. “Can I?”
Her eyes narrow, hands smoothing out over the sheet, over her legs. I can tell she’s not got pants on under it. No bra under that shirt. So little between me and her skin. That thought makes my cock twitch, raging hard for her. If there were more light in the room, she might catch it with her level of scrutiny.
“This the kind of sass your mother taught you to have to keep a man in line? Or did she teach you better?”
My comment drops her gaze, her chin, and I tuck a knuckle there to lift her gaze back to mine. And fuck, she’s angry, sad, and a little afraid. It makes me lean in a fraction, enough for her lips to part and her to pull in a small gasp. So fucking tempting.
My thumb brushes her mouth by accident—honest—or maybe not.
She freezes. For a second, the world narrows to that small contact and the quiet between heartbeats. I should step away. I don’t.
