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That’s not a risk I’m willing to take.
Slipping from the bed without disturbing her, I walk to the living room to grab my phone from my trousers.
Get some guys together.
I’m moving Layla to my place later today.
LIAM
You barely know this girl, and you are moving her into your place?
They fucking came for her, Liam.
The Pakhan sent someone after her because they can’t fucking get to me.
Oh fuck, Tris.
I need her to be where I can protect her.
Let the others know, too, and have Conor double up protection on Fiona.
Done.
Let me know when and where for her things.
Soon.
Using my trousers to wipe the remnants of last night’s bloody fingerprint from the screen, I leave my phone on her kitchen counter and head back to her bedroom. Bypassing the bed, where she’s still sound asleep, I make my way into the adjoining bathroom. I turn on the hot water to draw a bath and begin rummaging through drawers and cabinets in search of bubbles or bath bombs.
Pleased to find both in her linen cabinet, I opt for two deliciously scented honey bombs and drop them into the tub. I check the temperature of the water and adjust it accordingly to allow it to fill as I wake Layla.
“Time to get up, mo cuishle.” I delicately stroke the side of her face, and she stirs.
She scrunches up her face at the sunlight pouring through the small window. “What time is it? And why do you keep calling me that?” Her grumble is cute, but we have things to do.
“It’s eight, my darling. Mo cuishle means my darling. You are mine now, aren’t you?” My answer isn’t a total lie. My darling is the common vernacular, but the literal translation means ‘my pulse.’
The reason my heart beats.
A delighted smile spreads over her face as she rubs the sleep from her eyes. “Is that the tub?”
“Yes. And if you don’t get that perfect little arse of yours out of bed, it’s going to overflow soon.”
“Five more minutes,” she whines.
“Now.” I throw back the covers, revealing her gorgeous body. “I still need to clean up my mess from last night, and we have a few things to discuss.”
Okay, a few things for me to dictate.
“Fine.” She begrudgingly climbs from the bed and pouts. “Is there at least coffee?”
“Careful,” I warn, helping her into the steaming, foamy water. She melts into the water with a delightful moan, and I slide in at the other end of the tub.
Lifting the washcloth from the edge of the tub, I dip it beneath the water and ring out the excess.
“Foot,” I command as I hold out my hand. Layla lifts her leg through the surface of the water and places it into my awaiting palm.
“You said you were cleaning up your mess—” She’s interrupted by her own giggles as I run the sudsy cloth along the sole of her—apparently ticklish—foot. “Did you do weird shit with my feet while I was sleeping?”
