My god, she's so fucking beautiful.
She's curled on her side, facing away from me, and even from here I can see the line of her body under the blankets. The dip of her waist, the curve of her hip. Her breathing's too controlled to be asleep.
“I know you're awake,” I say softly.
Why'd I say that? Why?
She doesn't respond. With a sigh, I spread the blanket on the floor near the door and set the pillows down, then lower myself onto it with a grunt. It's not comfortable, but I've slept on worse.
“Goodnight, Bianca,” I whisper into the darkness.
Still nothing. But after a few minutes, I hear her breathing change just slightly. I don't know if it's myimagination or if I just fancy it, but I like the fact that she's calmer when I'm with her, as if she's finally allowing herself to sleep, now that I'm in the room with her.
Maybe she's starting to believe me. Maybe she actually does see that this is the way. That she has to trust me.
Maybe it’s just in my head.
I stay on the floor with one eye on the door, one ear listening for her. And I don't sleep, not a wink.
Hours crawl by. I count her breaths. One hundred forty-seven before her body finally relaxes into deep sleep. One hundred sixty-two when the cat starts purring.
I guess Lancelot's a bed cat, after all.
It’s fucking torture on this floor, and not because it's hard as flint. It's torture becauseshe's right there.
So close I can hear every small sound she makes.
So close I can smell that sweet vanilla scent.
So close I can hear the rustle of the sheets when she shifts. The catch in her breath when she dreams. The soft sigh that escapes her lips around three in the morning, breathy and low, and Christ, I have to close my eyes and think of anything else.
What does she dream about? If she dreams about me, I'm a monster in those dreams, not the man who wants to crawl into bed beside her, pull her against my chest, and feel her body pressed to mine. Not the man who'simagined a thousand times what it would be like to kiss her until she melts for me.
I swallow hard and punch the pillow.
Around four, Lancelot pads down from the bed and prowls over to me, his yellow eyes glowing in the dark. He stares at my face for a long moment, then settles onto my chest like we're best friends.
“Traitor,” I whisper, but I don't push him off. His presence is somehow comforting, and the purring helps to quiet my thoughts. I run my hand reluctantly over his fur. It's soft and well cared for, like everything else about Bianca's life.
I think about the times I've watched her through the windows. I've memorized every expression on her face. Every habit. Every joy.
The cat kneads his claws into my chest, and I wince. “Easy now, lad,” I mutter. “I'm not a feckin' scratching post.” He does it again, harder, like he's punishing me. Fair enough. I deserve worse than that.
When the sky starts to lighten outside, just barely, that pre-dawn glow of gray, I hear her wake. Her breathing changes. Then a small sound in the back of her throat, disoriented before she remembers.
I keep my eyes closed, my breathing even, and pretend I'm still asleep so I can observe what she does when she thinks I am. Give her a moment to herself, without me staring at her.
The bed creaks. Footsteps, soft and hesitant, pad across the floor toward the bathroom, and the door closes with a quiet click.
I open my eyes. The cat's gone. Smart bastard.
I sit up, roll my shoulders, and work out the kinks in my neck. I check my watch—half five. It’s early, but I've always been an early riser, a habit from a life that requires vigilance and responsibility.
The water runs in the bathroom, and I imagine her splashing her face and staring at herself in the mirror, trying to understand why the fuck she was taken, and what the fuck happens next. Trying to feel safe.
I stand and fold the blanket, stack it with the pillow, then place it on the chair near the corner. I slouch a bit and look away, trying to make myself look less threatening, less like the man who kidnapped her and is waiting for her every move.
Doesn't work. I know what I look like.
