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But this was not about my need, at least not right now.

This was about her.

She was trembling now, a fine, almost imperceptible shudder that ran through her body. I could feel the tension in her shoulders, the tightness in her muscles, even as she sagged against me, spent and vulnerable.

I tucked a stray strand of dark hair behind her ear, my fingers lingering on the soft skin of her cheek. Her eyes were closed, her lashes wet and spiky. She looked younger like this, stripped of the bravado and defiance that was her usual armor.

Truth be told, she was beautiful.

“Sleep now, little pet,” I murmured.

She made a small sound of protest as she burrowed closer, her face pressing against my chest, seeking comfort, seeking me. I shifted slightly, wincing as the movement pressed her bottom against my still hard cock, but she didn’t seem to notice. Or if she did, she didn’t care.

I continued to stroke her hair, and her breathing began to even out, her ragged gasps giving way to slow, deep breaths. The tension in her shoulders eased as I listened to the soft sound of her breathing. I watched the moonlight play across her face, tracing the lines of her cheekbones and the curve of her lips.

I eased her off my lap, and she mumbled something incoherent, her eyes fluttering open for a brief, confused moment before closing again. I laid her down on the bed, gently, on her stomach, and worked off her boots, followed by her pants and panties, which were tangled around her ankles. I pulled the covers up to her neck and tucked her in.

I sat beside her, just watching her sleep. The rise and fall of her back, the soft puff of her breath against the pillow, the way her dark hair fanned out across the fabric. Then, I reached out and gently brushed a stray strand of hair from her cheek. She sighed with contentment and shifted, turning her face into my touch.

The simple, trusting gesture was my undoing. A fierce, protective instinct surged through me. This was more than a debt to her father. This was more than a duty. This was mine. She was mine. I would tear apart anyone who dared to harm her, anyone who threatened to take her from me.

I sat there for a long time, just watching her.

I wanted to stay, to lie down beside her, to pull her into my arms and hold her through the night. But I couldn’t. Not yet.

She wasn’t ready for that yet.

I rose quietly and adjusted the covers around her again. I took one last look at her, at the dark, silent room, and then at her peaceful face for a moment longer, before I turned and walked out, closing the door softly behind me.

* * *

I woke at six fifteen in my own bed.

For several seconds, I remained still beneath the dark gray covers, listening to the townhouse settle around me. The heat clicked on inside the walls. Somewhere two floors below, the refrigerator motor started and ran with its familiar low hum. No alarm had sounded. No perimeter sensor had been tripped. The guards outside had changed at five without incident, and the security report on my phone showed nothing more threatening than a delivery truck idling too long near the corner before continuing south.

I slept in my room.

Alone.

The way I had for years.

By seven thirty, I had showered, dressed, checked the overnight reports, and walked through the townhouse with a mug of black coffee in one hand. Then, I went to the kitchen and made breakfast.

My mother had insisted every one of her sons learn to cook because she believed men who couldn’t feed themselves were useless, and our father had been smart enough not to disagree with her while she held a knife. I made eggs with dill and browned butter, sliced black bread, warmed the small apple pastries Riley had sent home with us, and set fruit beside some coffee because Alessia had eaten almost nothing the previous day.

She came downstairs thirty minutes later.

I heard the guest-room door open, followed by the brief pause that meant she was checking the hallway before stepping into it. Her feet moved quietly over the stairs, not quietly enough that I couldn’t track every step, but more quietly than they had the first morning.

She appeared in the kitchen wearing soft black trousers and a forest green sweater from the wardrobe my sisters-in-law had prepared. Her hair was loose, falling in dark waves around her shoulders, and there was a faint pink mark near her throat where the Petrosyan soldier’s hand had closed around it. The bruise at her wrist had darkened overnight. I gritted my teeth at the sight.

I should have killed him.

My eyes scanned over both injuries before I could stop it and she noticed.

“Good morning to you too,” she said.

“Sit.”