“Tell her,” Cosette hisses.
I want to know. Ineedto know.
“He—”
Heavy footsteps echo in the hallway outside the door. Gwen, who is afraid of literally nothing and no one, blinks and stares at me. Cosette jumps to her feet. Joëlle stares at the door. We all start at the sound of a loud, confident, resounding knock.
“Yes?” Cosette squeaks. “Who is it?”
“Fabien. May I come in?”
Fabien?I mouth. Gwen only nods.
“Yes, yes, of course, come in!”
The door swings open, andMonsieurFabien Gerard makes his entrance.
Under duress, my vague impression of him was some sort of hurricane-fueled monster with fists of steel and enoughauthority to make a full-grown man wet his pants. Now, though, calmed by my friends’ tender care and the warm tea, I’m in a better frame of mind.
He carries himself with an imposing air of self-confidence—tall, sturdy, he’s taller than every other man who’s entered this establishment, yet he walks with surprising grace. I’d guess it has something to do with the utter confidence in his stride, the certain knowledge that he not only owns this workplace but commands the respect of all those who defer to his authority.
Somewhere since we last saw him, he lost his suit coat. I’d guess he discarded it so he could more effectively deliver a beating, or… whatever it is he settled on.
But now, without the benefit of a coat, his folded sleeves reveal strong, tanned arms laced with muscle. I’m helpless to stop my gaze from traveling the length of his bare arms to the bulge of his biceps, to the swell of his shoulders against the expensive fabric.
My breath freezes when I realize he’s storming in here like he’s charging into battle, and he’s walking straight towardme.I wildly remember I’m wearing too-big pajamas that reveal copious cleavage under this blanket and not much else.
Despite his size, he moves with graceful strides. I don’t know what he’ll do when he reaches me, and half expect us to collide. But then he stops and bends toward me. I’m dazzled by a whiff of expensive cologne, by the sudden nearness of him.
“Es-tu blessé?” he asks. When I don’t immediately respond, he frowns, and likely thinks I don’t speak fluent French, because he asks again, this time in English, “Are you hurt?”
“No,” I say, “I’m fine.”
He stares at me with warm, compelling brown eyes, stern beneath heavy brows. A scattering of scruffy beard across his rugged jaw makes him all the more intimidating, as if he couldn’t be bothered to do something as civil as shaving.
I freeze, not even breathing, when he reaches a hand to my jaw and brushes his thumb softly across my cheek. “He hurt you.” Behind him, Gwen’s eyes are comically large. I’d giggle if I could breathe.
I shake my head and draw in a ragged breath. “Not much. I’m—I’m fine.”
Crouching in front of me, his gaze holds me captive. “Tell me what happened.”
I tell him in a rush of words. It takes all of my self-control to make sure my voice doesn’t waver. I watch his eyes darken when I tell him the full story and how I was threatened.
“He deserved what he got, then,” he says with decisiveness.
I swallow and don’t respond, because I don’t know what he got and it’s becoming harder to talk.
I watch, my breath frozen, as he stands to his full height and steps back. I breathe freely again.
He begins to pace, his hands shoved deep in his pockets. “This weekend, we’ll install heavier security measures. Gwen, you did the right thing in alerting me immediately. But I’m rarely here, and it’s become clear we need heavier security when I’m not. You’ll be rewarded for your quick decision and attention to detail.”
Gwen smiles and flushes a little. It’s the first time I think I’ve ever seen her blush. “Thank you, sir.”
It’s almost unsettling. Gwen doesn’t call anyonesir.If anything, she’s the one men hire to dominatethemwhen that’s their flavor of kink.
“Your name?”
I realize with a jolt that he’s talking to me.
