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I don’t know if he wants answers to his questions or if he’s just trying to work out how something like this happened at Matthew’s club. A place that is supposed to be safe for its members. I don’t dare answer. Matthew is treading close to the edge already, and I don’t want to draw any closer attention to the fact that his club isn’t nearly as safe as he thought.
“You should’ve let me beat him to death for this,” Kisten says coldly. “In fact, I still might.”
I look over my shoulder to see Kisten’s eyes glued to my back in a cartoonish look of horror. Matthew’s eyes are burning pits of flame that promise retribution, and he’s looking straight at his best friend. I know he doesn’t want to fight with Kisten. He’s pissed and wants to lash out at someone, but Kisten doesn’t deserve his wrath.
“Matty, it wasn’t his fault.” I’m not sure where the nickname comes from, but I like it. I like thinking of him as my Matty and not Matthew or Master Bennett that everyone else calls him. With downcast eyes, I quietly accept the blame. “This is my fault. No one else.” I can’t look at any of them as I admit, “It’s all my fault.”
“Shut the fuck up, Rose,” Kisten barks. “This is Damon’s fault. He’s a piece of shit that we should have dealt with a long fucking time ago.”
“Don’t you fucking yell at her,” Matthew growls, taking a threatening step towards Kisten.
“Both of you calm the fuck down. Why don’t you focus on what’s important right now?” Slade snaps. “Come on, little bit, let’s get you cleaned up. Hannah will tend to your back and then make you dinner.”
A pretty redhead steps out from behind Slade and gives me a shy smile. “I’m happy to be of service,” she says softly.
“Hannah, Rose will be staying with us for the foreseeable future. She’s ours to take care of while she’s here.”
Matthew lets out a low growl when Slade uses the word “ours” in conjunction with my name. Warmth blooms in my chest at the possibility that he doesn’t want to share me.
The redhead—Hannah—looks up at Slade with so much love and adoration it’s painful to see, especially when Slade returns the look with hardness. It doesn’t seem to faze her, though.
“As you please, Master,” she says quietly.
Slade blows out a breath. “Hannah—” he starts but seems to think better of whatever he was going to say and closes his mouth.
“Actually,” Matthew speaks up, “If you wouldn’t mind making a quick meal for Rose, I’d like to help her get settled. I’ll take care of her wounds.”
Hannah gives Matthew a bright smile, and I suddenly want to poke the cute redheads pretty green eyes out. “I’d be happy to, Matthew. Any allergies I should know about?” Even though she was looking directly at me when she asks, it’s Matthew who tells her about my allergy to fish and berries. Hannah gives Slade one last longing look before practically skipping toward what I assume is the kitchen.
“That girl,” Slade says with a shake of his head. “She’s going to be the death of me. How did you move from Master Bennett to Matthew? You’re her boss, and she uses your name like it’s no big deal. I’m her friend, and I’ve been trying to get her to call me Slade for years, and she refuses.”
Kisten laughs then puts his hand on Slade’s shoulder consolingly. “You’ll never be just her friend. One of these days, you’ll realize exactly what you are. I can’t wait to see the day.”
Slade brushes his hand away and storms out of the room, causing both Matthew and Kisten to laugh. Whatever it is that’s going on between Hannah and Slade has lifted the tension between Matthew and Kisten. I feel bad for being happy for the distraction.
Matthew turns to me with a smile. “Come on, love. I’ll show you to your room, and we will get your back tended to.”
“Okay, thank you.”
He leads me down a hallway with several doors. He points out his home office, two guest bedrooms, a bathroom, and a room that looks suspiciously like a library. Lastly, he shows me the master suite. I expect him to turn back towards one of the guest rooms, but he leads me into his room and straight through to the attached bathroom. He fiddles with the taps on a tub that I swear is big enough for half a dozen Matthew sized men. It’s even better than I imagined.
I can’t wait to sink into the steaming hot water. Matthew adds a few things to the water, and the room fills with the sweet yet minty scent of eucalyptus. He tests the water then adjusts the tap, when he’s satisfied, he turns to me and freezes. I blush when I realize I dropped my arm, giving him an unfettered view of my bare breasts. I shiver at the smoldering look in his eyes. Matthew looks hungry, and I have the distinct impression that it’s not for food.
A heat I’ve never known before grows in my gut. My nipples pebble into firm peaks. I shift on my feet and am shocked to feel the dampness between my legs. I swallow thickly as I try to process my body’s response to a simple look.
This isn’t the first time a man has looked at me with desire, but the differences are stark in comparison. Men have looked at me with covetous lust. They’ve looked at my nakedness greedily. I’ve had men look at me with a burning hatred while at the same time rock-hard in their pants and eager to have me.
Matthew is looking at me with hungry desire, yes, but he’s not covetous, and he certainly doesn’t have an ounce of hatred in his eyes. For some reason, the look in his eyes is more intimidating than any of the others before him. I knew what to expect before. Now, I’m out of my depth. The urge to cover my body and hide away from the feelings that Matthew evokes in me is strong. I’m already looking for a towel or something to cover myself when he speaks, “You’re fucking beautiful.”
His words are a benediction, and the certainty in his voice when he calls me beautiful makes me desperate to see what he sees. When I look in the mirror, all I can see are my scars. Every little flaw stands out like a spotlight anytime I look at myself. Which is why I avoid mirrors at all costs. I don’t need to see them to know they are there. Seeing them is just a reminder.
“Sorry,” Matthew apologizes. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”
I shake my head. “I’m not scared of you, Matty.” He closes his eyes when I say the nickname as if it pains him. Maybe he hates being called that. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to—"
“No need to apologize, love. It’s just been a long time since anyone used that nickname.”
I look at my feet, wondering why a nickname would cause such a reaction from him. He seems both sad and happy at the same time. The juxtaposition between the two is confusing, and I’m not sure how to respond. When in doubt, apologize. That’s the safest response to everything.
