I try not to over analyze the fact that his statement seems to tame my volatile nerves. The last thing the mural of our relationship needs is another layer of paint. It’s messy enough as it is.
“Fine,” I snip, knowingexactlyhow stubborn that lock is.
Nothing is getting through that thing without a key.
I stand, making to walk around his side of the table when a low warning sound rumbles out of him.
My feet cement in place.
He jerks his chin in the other direction, and I sigh, diverting my path, heading toward the exit while fanning myself with a silver plate that doubles as an unrewarding mirror for my flushed face.
“Your handmaiden will be up to tend to your needs and collect your nightly offering,” he says when I’m halfway across the room.
His words peck at me, though I try not to let my discomfort show.
Likely fail.
Half my enjoyment comes from listening to him ascend those stairs, open The Safe, remove the goblet, and collect that little part ofme. I use his sounds as a stencil to create a physical picture in my mind, and now he’s taking them away, too.
I quicken my pace.
“Orlaith.”
My name is bitten out like it’s some sort of curse, and I spin, seeing an ocean of unsaid words in his catacomb eyes.
“Yes?”
“Do not, under any circumstance, leave your room. Do you understand me?”
Swallowing, I nod.
“Say it.”
“I understand, Rhordyn.”
“Good.” I note a softening of his tone—detect an easing of the tension in his features. “Go.”
I don’t wait for him to tell me again.
Chunks of ice chase my movements as though caught on a line, dissolving to become one with the water in this deep, galvanized tub hidden behind a fall of black velvet. There’s a sconce above my head spilling light over my flushed body, illuminating curves that have never looked so plump and pink and—
I sit up in a dash of water and rage.
Hugging my knees close to my chest, I rock in little hammering motions that fail to distract my restless mind. The movement stirs water aroundthatpart of me and a moan slips out; one that scalds my cheeks because just behind the curtain, Tanith is changing my sheets.
But I just can’t help it.
I’m so sensitive—untouched need pulsing with its own carnal heartbeat, something that seems directly connected to the torrid roots digging low in my belly.
Demanding.
“Are you ready for more ice?” Tanith asks, her voice reminding me of a wind chime.
“I think so,” is my hollow response as I rock and rock and rock, bunched in a knot, letting the icy water strike that chord of pleasure in a delicate way.
I’m so far out of my comfort zone that I want to burst at the seams. Want to dip my head below the water andscream.
Thunder rumbles all around my tower, like I’m the beating heart of the storm. Usually, I’d enjoy bunkering down with a book or the blank canvas of an unpainted rock during this sort of weather, but my mind’s a riot of hyper-sensitivity, bored with my limited resources. This aching, bone-weary boredom, like my muscles are crammed full of energy I don’t have the space to expel.
