He steps closer to me, close enough that I can smell him—pine and smoke and something darker, more masculine. His silver eyes bore into mine. I know I should move away, but I'm rooted to this spot. For a second, I wonder if he’s a half-wolf who transforms under the light of a full moon.
“I know how good you are. Better than most people I've ever known. I've seen you when you didn't know anyone else was looking. When you stop performing for everyone else, I see the real you.”
“Stop.” My hands are shaking. “Just stop. Don't you have any fucking idea how creepy that is?Stop.”
He does, immediately, like the word is a physical barrier between us. He gives me a cursory look.
“If I gave you food now, would you eat it?” My stomach growls as I think of warm, crusty bread and a bowl of D'Agostino's pasta.
I'm starving. I haven't eaten in hours and have been trying to get by on as little as possible, knowing I was moving in with Marcus, who wouldn't approve.
I clench my teeth and hold his gaze. “No.”
Something flickers in his expression, and again, I'm vividly aware of how he's holding himself back, restraining something in him. “Right, then,” he says. “I'll show you to your room.”
Chapter Eight
Bianca
I feellike Belle inBeauty and the Beast. He's the big furry beast, with his hands shoved in his pockets, showing me to my room as if it's a peace offering, as if this weren't wrong and a well-made bed will make this right.
As if I wouldn't run if I got the chance.
Just like Belle.
I've always related to the bookish recluse no one quite understands. She found her friends in books and in places she'd never been, though unlike Belle, I've always wanted to stay in my town. Stay where things were safe and predictable.
And I don't have a father I've traded my freedom for.
He leads me down the narrow hallway, his hand hovering near my elbow as if he wants to keep me upright, but he'snot quite touching. The heat from his palm radiates against my skin anyway, making me hyperaware of how close he is.
Maybe he's afraid I'll bolt. Not like I haven't thought about it.
The floorboards creak under his weight, though he walks with surprising grace for such a big man.
The Beast. He's just like the Beast.
Is he as tortured as the one in the story?
No. I won't think of that. I'm not going to besympatheticto him.
“This one's yours,” he says gruffly, pushing open a door.
The room is small but comfortable, even stunning. A four-poster bed with white linens, a worn rug on the floor, a nightstand with a lamp already glowing softly. The bed dominates the space, and I try not to think about where he might be sleeping. He did say this was my room, but…
He nods toward another door, breaking the tension. “Toilet's through there. Clean towels are in the cupboard.”
He pauses, and his gray eyes find mine, holding me captive as surely as the locked door will. “And there's a window in there, but it's small and bolted shut. Don't bother trying it, Bianca.”
“Is that why I get this room?” The words come out small and bitter. “Because you've made sure I can't escape?”
He doesn't apologize, just holds me with those steady eyes, and something passes between us‚ something dark and charged that makes my breath catch. “That's exactly why, lass.”
I want to scream at him, but I'm so tired and confused and hungry, a terrible combination that always makes me emotional and irrational.
He moves to the bed, sits on the edge like he's testing the mattress, and the frame groans under his weight. The sound is obscene in the quiet room.
“You'll be sleeping here.” He pats the mattress beside him, and my eyes catch the way his thighs spread as he sits, taking up space. Claiming territory. Then he gestures to the floor. “And that's where I'll be. With blankets and a pillow.” He rubs his jaw and mutters, “Comfortable enough, I reckon.”
