Page 82 of Captive Ruin

Because you like waking up with him.

The thought comes as a shock, but as I lie there considering it, I can’t refute it.

There is something magnetic about him. He saved my gallery, then cooked for me. Seeing that body is always a treat; it was sculpted by a master. His fixation with civility. He’s intelligent, that much is obvious. Driven. Dangerous.

Dangerous? Jesus, Amelia. How is that on the positive list?

I need to ask him about Serranto. I couldn’t, last night, but I do need to know. I’m not wholly against him doing nasty things to the man who tried to blackmail Lucy and me. But a finger in a box? It’s not the usual early-relationship present.

Shit, when did this become a relationship?

Since he’s practically moved in, makes you come harder than anyone else, and holds you while you sleep.

Since he told you he’d kill any man that touched you.

Yeah, but that wasn’t serious though, was it? It was nothing more than post-orgasmic bluster. Surely.

I haven’t convinced myself.

Maybe lying in bed with him isn’t the best time to think this all through. I need space. And it’s Tuesday; the gallery, the exhibition only a day away. I have loads to do. I need to get up.

Yet for some reason, I’m still not moving. I think it’s his hand on me, cupping my breast, and his hard, flat chest pressed to my back.

It’s not the only part of him that’s hard. I can feel his morning wood, nestled against my slightly sore ass. God, the size of him. No wonder I ache.

At least he’s still asleep. His breathing is regular. Maybe I can slip out before he wakes and take a shower.

I start to inch my way from beneath his hold.

“Good morning, Little Stray. Sweet dreams?”

Not asleep then.

“No dreams,” I reply, “or if I did, I can’t remember them.”

“Good. That means you slept peacefully.”

Or I was just too exhausted. Right?

I turn onto my back, sliding from his grip in the process, and pull the duvet up to my chin. He props himself up on one elbow, watching me, his other hand slipping under the covers to lay flat against my stomach.

I wonder if he can feel how tense I am.

“What’s the matter?” he asks.

Okay, he can.

Part of me is surprised he cares enough to inquire. There’s a million good answers to his question, all of which stem from him, but he’s asking like there’s no chance he could be the issue, and something else must be bothering me.

On this occasion, he’s not wrong.

“There’s… something I want to ask you.”

“Go ahead.”

“Serranto. What did you do to him?”

His head tilts. “Does it matter?”