“Lords are welcome to entertain anyone they please,” I recite, but my throat feels tight.
“But wives aren’t?”
“Of course not.” The very idea is ludicrous.
Maverick stops walking. “Don’t you see the hypocrisy in that?”
“A man’s pleasure always comes first.”
“I’m a man. Does my pleasure come first?” he asks, somehow sounding both curious and annoyed.
My brow furrows as I ponder his question. Everything I’ve been taught tells me the answer should be yes. But he’s not a lord or a brother, so I’m unsure. “I don’t know.”
“If I told you to lie down and spread your legs so I could find my pleasure, would you?” He sounds disgusted even posing the question.
My muscles immediately tighten, anxiety filling my gut. My shoulders inch up toward my ears and my heart starts beating faster. The visceral response isn’t exactly unusual; my body always responds this way with Gabriel, too. It’s just part of being physically intimate.
When I take too long to respond, Maverick speaks again. “I can feel how tense you are.”
My anger flares. “So?”
He finally starts walking again. “That’s not normal. The idea of having sex shouldn’t send your body into a panic.”
“It doesn’t,” I argue, forcing my shoulders to relax.
“So you like it, then?”
“Like what?”
“Having sex.”
My cheeks flush. “That’s really none of your business.”
“It’s a simple question, Mrs. Sinclair.”
“And I already told you, a man’s pleasure comes first.”
“Fucking hell,” he says, the disbelief obvious in his tone. Before I can respond, we arrive at his tent. He pushes inside where the wolf is curled up in a ball on the bed. “Zeus.” One word, and he hops off the mattress and curls up on the floor instead.
I watch the animal as Maverick sets me down on the bed, finding I don’t have the energy to protest. He moves to take off my shoe, but I pull my foot away so fast I nearly knee myself in the nose. “I don’t like my feet being touched.”
He quirks a brow. “The swelling will be worse if we don’t remove your shoe.”
“I’ll do it then.” Acutely aware of his eyes tracking my movements, I remove my shoes but leave my sock on.
Maverick places a pillow underneath my ankle, elevating my injured foot. He squats down and digs through a duffle bag at the foot of the bed, pulling out a roll of elastic bandage. “It will heal faster if I wrap it.”
I bite my lip, considering the pros and cons. Pro: the faster my ankle heals, the faster I can get out of here. Con: the idea of anyone touching my feet makes my skin crawl. Ever since I stepped in that puddle of blood on the night of the Reckoning, having my feet bare is enough to send me into a spiral.
“Fine,” I tell him.“Just don’t take my sock off.”
He studies me, no doubt wondering what’s wrong with me, before he nods once. After a few minutes of careful maneuvering on his part and measured breathing on mine, my ankle is wrapped securely but not too tightly, applying just the right amount of compression.
“Where did you learn how to do that?” I ask, needing a distraction.
“I took a sports medicine class in high school.”
“Oh.” I never even finished elementary school. The institute taught us basic literacy and arithmetic, but I can guarantee my education looked entirely different than his. “Thank you.”
