The bathroom door opens, and she stands there in her pajamas, her dark hair in a tousled braid, so damn fetching. The morning light from the window catches her just right, and I can see the outline of her body through the thin fabric. Christ. She's not wearing a bra.
Lancelot winds between her ankles, meowing softly, and she reaches down to pick him up, the movement making her pajama top gape open just enough that I have to look away before I do something stupid.
Oh my fucking god.
“Morning, lass,” I say quietly, my voice rougher than I intended.
She doesn't respond, just stares at me.
“I'll make breakfast. You hungry?”
“No.”
There's no fucking way Bianca will starve herself on my watch.
“Of course you are. You'll eat breakfast today if I have to hold you on my lap and spoon-feed you myself.”
I move toward the door to give her space, then stop close enough to catch the vanilla scent again. I’m close enough to see the pulse fluttering in her throat. I turn to her. “Bianca.”
She tenses, and I watch her chest rise and fall faster. Fear, aye. But something else too, something in the way her eyes dart to my mouth before jerking away.
“I meant what I said last night, lass. I'm not going to hurt you. I know you don't believe me yet, but you will.”
Her dark eyes meet mine. Defiant. Terrified. Beautiful. Her lips part slightly, like she wants to say something, and it takes every ounce of restraint I have not to close the distance between us, not to press her against the wall and show her exactly what I want from her. What I've wanted for six fucking years.
“How long am I here?”
“As long as it takes.”
“That's not an answer.” Her voice trembles, but she doesn't back down. Brave girl.
“It's the only one I've got.” I let my eyes drop to her mouth one more time before I turn and walk out, because if I stay one more second, I won't be able to stop myself from touching her.
Breakfast. It’s time for breakfast.
Chapter Ten
Bianca
I hoverin the doorway between the bedroom and the main room, watching him move around the kitchen like he's done this a thousand times before.
Meanwhile, I’m pretending I'm not so starving I feel faint.
What do I really know about this man? Nothing except his name is Ashland. He’s dangerous; he says he's the one who saved me—though I don't remembermany details of that night—and he says he's been watching me for six years.
Oh, and he also thinks kidnapping is an acceptable form of protection.
Of course, the details he rattled off about my life confirm that he has indeed been watching—no, stalking me.
I shiver and rub my hands over my arms. He pauses slightly and turns a bit so I'm visible in his peripheral vision, but then goes back to cooking, as if he doesn't want to frighten me or scare me away.
I am starving… ravenously, dangerously hungry. There are dots in my vision when I look around, and my stomach won't stop growling. Even now, knowing I'm starving, there’s still a part of me that thinks,Good, I can lose a few pounds.
I swallow hard. My mouth is watering because it smells so good in here.
The morning light filters through the windows, catching on the Celtic knots tattooed on his forearms. As he cracks eggs into a bowl, his movements are efficient and practiced, his large hands surprisingly deft. He whisks them with a fork, moving with unexpected precision.
The muscles in his shoulders flex beneath his black T-shirt with each motion, and I hate myself a little for noticing. He hasn't fully looked at me yet, or acknowledged my presence, but I know he knows I'm watching.
