Page 115 of Bound

Peace.

Just a little.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Erin

There are private islands.

And then there is whatever the Bachmans consider a private island.

The Parrish rises out of the Aegean in layers of white stone, green olive trees, and water so blue it looks fake.

I stand at the edge of the terrace in a white silk robe and stare down at the sea. “Lucian.”

No answer.

“Lucian.”

Still nothing.

I turn.

He is lying across the enormous bed with one arm over his eyes.

My husband is pretending to sleep.

Badly.

“Are you ignoring me?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because you are wearing that robe and standing too far away.”

I smile. “We have been here exactly twelve hours.”

“Eleven hours and forty-two minutes.”

“That is alarming.”

“I have a watch.”

“You aren’t wearing a watch.”

He moves his arm enough to look at me. “I know what time the plane landed.”

It’s only since we became husband and wife that I realized my husband has an internal calendar. “Of course you do.”

The bedroom doors are open to the terrace. Warm wind moves the curtains. I move to the edge, holding the iron railing of the balcony.

Beyond the terrace, white stone villas dot down the green hillside.

Pools. Stone paths. Flowers. A private beach.

Heaven.