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His reaction to all this has not been what I expected. I'm not sure it's what anyone would have expected.
He should be angry at me. Possibly even disgusted. Even if he couldn't allow himself to walk away knowing I'd likely end up dead because of it, he should still resent me a little.
Instead he's holding me close, as if he's worried letting me go will give someone the opportunity to snatch me away and collect the bounty on my head. Like the thought of something bad happening to me distresses him to an extreme level.
And that makes me feel a little guilty. I don't want to distress him. I don't want him to be worried or for my fears to be his.
Especially since right now only one of us can hold up our end of the bargain that brought us to this point. Fynn has no intention of letting me leave his mother’s home until this is resolved, which means I can't go around Sweet Side convincing everyone he's a loyal, doting husband, completing the redemption arc that will restore his reputation.
And that adds even more guilt to my growing pile.
The doors to the elevator open and Nicholas goes out first, rolling our suitcases into the gigantic foyer before turning to Fynn. "Shall I put you in the guest room overlooking the ocean, or would you rather be in the room at the opposite end of the apartment?"
Fynn tips his head to the left, gesturing at the hallway leading that direction without releasing me. "You can put us at the other end. I don't want to disturb my mother any more than we already are."
Nicholas gives him a nod of understanding, rolling both bags in the direction Fynn indicated.
I shift on my feet, feeling even more uncertain. "If our presence is going to be too much for your mother—"
Fynn pulls me closer, pressing my front to his as he leans down, one large hand curving against my face. "Our presence is not what I'm worried about disturbing my mother." His lips trace along my jawline to move against my ear. "I'd simply rather not have her hear you chanting my name as you come on my cock."
I wobble in my heels as I grip the front of his shirt, the entirety of my body bursting into flames at his words. I’m becoming a little concerned, honestly, because I’ve only had sex once, and already I’m becoming a little obsessed with the act. Fynn has made many promises and offered up many scenarios for me to juggle around my lust hazed brain. Each one of them takes up more than its fair share of space and seems to claim more brain cells with each passing minute. To the point I'm worried I'm going to start forgetting important things.
Like my name.
"Here’s my son and my beautiful daughter-in-law." Fynn’s mother appears, her arms outstretched. I step out of his embrace, moving away so she can hug him. To my surprise, Fynn is not who she reaches for first. Her thin, but strong arms latch onto me, pulling me in for a hug I feel all the way to my soul. This time I'm prepared for it though, so hopefully I don't make a fool of myself by crying at the feeling of love and warmth it provides.
"Thank you so much for letting us stay here." I swallow hard, hoping Fynn knows what he's doing. I didn't want to bring any sort of danger to his mother's doorstep, but he assured me that’s not going to happen. That this is simply a short-term solution until he can take care of my problem.
Which he oddly called our problem.
"Of course, darling." Fynn's mother leans back, her hands coming to my face. "I understand what it’s like to deal with renovations. The drywall dust gets everywhere."
I manage a weak smile even though lying to the woman in front of me makes me want to throw up.
There is no renovation. There's no drywall dust. Just a hitman. Coming for me.
"Give her room to breathe, Mum." Fynn’s tone is gentle. "Don't smother her before she's even made it all the way inside."
His mother's brows lift as she faces him. "And why not?" She hooks one arm through mine, lifting her chin at him. "If I can't smother my new daughter-in-law, then what purpose do I even serve?"
She starts walking me away as Fynn snorts behind us. "I believe your general purpose is serving as snack bitch for the dog pack you've accumulated."
His mother laughs, her head tipping back, the sound joyful and amused. "You are not wrong, my son." She continues walking, leading me into the same sitting room where we met yesterday.
Only this time, it’s much more crowded than I remember. Not with dogs—I think there are the same number of dogs. The clutter appears to be design boards of some sort. They’re leaned against chairs and bookcases, and even the line of windows overlooking the ocean.
"It looks like you've been busy." My eyes move over the one closest to me. It features a sketch of a faceless model draped in flowing fabric. A sample of gauzy material is clipped to the drawing, along with a few types of trim. Beneath all that is a printout of prices and delivery times.
I swing my eyes back to his mother, looking over her own flowing gown. "Are you working on a fashion line?"
Her expression brightens, smile widening. "I am. Would you like to hear about it?"
Fynn’s head tips back, eyes lifting to the ceiling. "Mother—"
"I would love to." My interest is genuine. "Are you wearing one of the samples?"
His mother pinches the voluminous flow of fabric at her thighs, pulling it out. "It is. Do you like it?"
