Page 18 of Bound in Ruin

I laugh outright, unbothered by her bite, and pull on my briefs.

I walk across the room to the small bar top, pouring myself a glass of bourbon. Rosalia turns her head just enough to track my movement out of the corner of her eye.

"Don't you have more clothes to put on?" she demands, her voice tight with exasperation.

I turn back to face her, taking a slow sip, letting the amber liquid warm my chest as I look at her over the rim. "A married couple should be very comfortable around each other, shouldn't they?"

A frustrated growl escapes her throat, her dark eyes flashing with sharp annoyance. "How would you feel if I were the one walking around half-naked?"

My eyes darken slightly, a heavy, quiet heat settling low in my gut. I hold her gaze, letting the silence stretch between us for a long beat.

"Let's not go down that road, Rosalia," I hum, my voice dropping an octave, rich and smooth with an unspoken threat.

She shuts her mouth instantly, catching the weight behind my words.

I down the rest of the alcohol in one smooth swallow, savoring the harsh, satisfying burn down my throat, and set the crystal glass on the tray. Turning away, I make my way toward the bed.

The moment the mattress dips under my weight, Rosalia practically scrambles toward the far edge, pressing her back against the headboard and putting as much distance between us as humanly possible.

I pull the dark sheets up over my waist, settling into the pillows with a low chuckle, enjoying the absolute terror and defiance rolling off her in waves.

I notice she is always fully covered. She radiates this prim, proper, demure vibe, but I have a sinking feeling that’s not all there is to it.

Aside from the fact that she never shows an inch of skin during the day, even her pajamas are full-coverage silk, buttoned straight to the collar, and she currently has the heavy comforter drawn all the way up to her chin. My instincts are tingling, telling me there's a reason for every layer, but I let it slide. No personal questions. That was her rule, after all.

I rest my head back against the leather headboard, turning my face to look at her swaddled form on the far side of the bed.

"Are you uncomfortable, Rosalia?" I ask softly, my voice laced with mild amusement.

"Go put some clothes on," she demands through gritted teeth, not taking her eyes off me.

"Why does it bother you so much?" I reply, resting my arms behind my head and watching her cheeks flush all over again.

"Because we are not a real couple!" she snaps, clutching the sheets to her neck like a shield. "And you walking around in your underwear is a blatant violation of my personal space!"

"It’s just cotton, Rosalia. You act like I’m standing here with a loaded gun," I drawl, letting a slow, deliberate smirk spread across my face. "Besides, if you're so completely unaffected by me, why are you pressing yourself so hard against the headboard? You look like you're trying to melt into the wallpaper."

"I am not affected by you!" her voice rises, sharp and indignant, a fierce flash of anger igniting in her dark eyes. "You are simply annoying, arrogant, and unbearable!"

"Is that right?" I lean in slightly, lowering my voice to a dangerous, intimate murmur that cuts right through the space between us. "Because an angry woman is usually a woman who feels something. If my body truly meant nothing, my lack of a shirt wouldn't make your pulse race like a trapped bird."

"My pulse is not racing!" she bites out, though the rapid flutter at the base of her throat betrays her entirely. She glares at me with enough heat to incinerate the whole estate. "You take pleasure in pushing me, don't you?"

"Only because you make it so ridiculously easy, sweetheart," I hum, settling deeper into the pillows.

She opens her mouth to deliver another sharp retort, her chest heaving under the heavy silk of her buttoned-up pajamas. The air in the room turns thick, charged with a sudden, suffocating friction that neither of us can ignore—a silent tug-of-war where every word is a weapon and every glance is a provocation.

I watch her, taking in the defensive tilt of her chin, the fierce, unyielding pride burning behind her glare. I love watching her fight back. I love testing her boundaries, feeling the sharp edge of her tongue, seeing just how far I can push before she breaks.

But I don't move an inch closer.

I keep my hands resting casually behind my head, strictly on my side of the massive mattress. I will tease her, I will provoke her, and I will drive her completely out of her mind—but I won't cross that line. An agreement is an agreement.

"Get some sleep, Rosalia," I say softly, the banter dropping from my tone as I close my eyes. "Tomorrow is going to be a long day."

I reach over and flick off the light, plunging the room into darkness.

CHAPTER SIX