I nod, feeling silly and foolish. I didn't mean to. It was just instinct—I tuck my feet under me when I'm having a difficult conversation.
“Maybe these are stories about people trying to be good in a world that won't let them.”
He smirks. “Well,” he mutters. “You didn't name your cat Arthur, did you?”
I feel heat creep up my neck and shrug. “Lancelot's a better name.”
He chuckles and sets the book aside. “Give me your ankle.”
“It's fine.”
His voice is stern. “Ankle, Bianca.”My heart thumps.
I give him my leg, and he shifts closer, cradling it in his large, rough hands. This time, his touch is gentle, almost clinical. But still, heat spreads from every point of contact.
“Still tender,” he murmurs, his thumb pressing carefully against the bruised skin. “You should take better care. No standing on it. No tucking it under you. Keep it elevated.” He looks up at me through those gunmetal-gray eyes. “You did a good number on yourself.”
I huff out a breath.
“I suppose this is good,” he says, gently placing it on the ottoman. “At least you'll have a reason not to run for a little while. Maybe in the next couple of days, you'll see I'm not the monster you think I am.”
And I start to wonder… yeah. Yeah, this could work to my advantage.
I should probably put some distance between us before this—whateverthis is—goes too far. But I can't seem to move. Can't seem to do anything but stare at this brutal, damaged man who looks at me like I'm the only light in his darkness.
His thumb traces smooth circles on my skin, just above my ankle.
“You scare me,” I whisper.
He drops my leg like I've burned him. “Not really, do I?”
“You do. Of course you do.” But it's terrifying because maybe he doesn't. Not in the way I should be scared. Not in a way that makes me want to run.
His eyes darken, and his hand slides up my leg to my thigh. “Why, lass? Tell me.”
I’m confused, angry, desperate, and hopelessly aroused.
But I don't say that out loud.
“I don't know.”
“Liar. You're a little liar.” He pulls me closer until I'm practically in his lap. “I should spank you again for lying to me.”
He holds my gaze, and I know he watches as my eyes go half lidded and heated.
“You know exactly what you are, who you are. You're just afraid to admit it, aren't you?”
“What's that? What the hell are you talking about?”
“Mine.” His voice is harsh, possessive. He says it like it's inevitable. Like gravity. “You've always been mine, Bianca.”
The logical part of me wants to tell him that you can't own a person. That this is wrong, and I hate him. But his hand cups my face, and his thumb brushes my lip. All I can think isYes.
“Ashland,” I whisper.
“Say my name again.” It's not a request. It's a plea.
“Ashland.” I watch as something in his eyes breaks open.
