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Lazily, I answered, “I’m not a bunny.”
“You’re not an old lady, either.”
My eyes flashed up to him, still drunk on my orgasms. “Untie me?”
When he finished loosening the ropes, I asked, “Then what am I, Graff?”
He pinched his lips and his brows dropped into a V at the bridge of his nose, like he was fighting the words he wanted to say.
At last, he said, “You’re our . . . princess.”
My heart flooded with warmth. Not his. Not Sas’s.
Buttheirs.
The one that remained, though, was Rafe. He’d watched but didn’t touch. And I found that hot as fuck. But I’d have to deal with that another time.
I sat up on the table, and Graff gathered my robe from the floor, wrapped me up, and then carried me through the door to my appointed room. Men’s and women’s voices fluttered down the hallways, people returning from the bonfire.
Inside my room, Graff laid me down on the bed. My head rested on the pillow, and he pulled the blankets up around me, neither of us having said anything on the walk down here. It was a comfortable silence.
He started to walk back toward the door.
“Wait, Graff.”
He paused, hesitating to turn around, but he checked over his shoulder.
I stretched out my hand to him. “Don’t go.”
“I shouldn’t stay,” he said, his hands curling at his sides.
“Lots of shouldn’ts, but will you lay with me?” I asked as another flush of heat filled my cheeks. “Sleep with me, I mean.”
Nodding, he kicked off his shoes and laid his cut on the nightstand, and then crawled into bed with me. Already, my eyelids were drooping.
He wrapped his arms around me and pulled me close, my head against his chest listening to the steady thump of his heart. I was drifting off to sleep as he kissed my forehead.
And I swear I heard something along the lines of, “We’re the luckiest fucking bastards alive.”
Chapter Thirty
ADELINA
Last night was hazy,memories swirling in my dreams, and when I woke up in my bed, I was sure it wasn’t real. Until I moved and pain thrashed against my pussy and ass cheeks, more pain shooting out from my wrists and ankles. I rubbed my wrist and then hissed. The bruises were pale, and there were rope burns too.
“Don’t touch them,” said a voice beside me, and I startled through the waking haze.
Graff was on his side, head propped up on his fist. Concern etched his features like a different kind of tattoo.
I reached out my hand—more soreness shooting through my joints—and touched the lines of his face and then down the tattoos on his neck and behind his ears. The whole time, Graff said nothing, just watched me from the corner of his eye.
He practically froze under my touch.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” I murmured.
“I know.” He kissed my fingertips. “But you’re hurt.”
“I’ll be fine.” While the words left my lips without me thinking, I knew they were true.
