“You married me.”
“On paper.”
“You fell asleep on my shoulder last night.”
“That was fatigue.”
“And this.”
I tilted my face up slightly to look at him.
“This is . . . unclear.”
His thumb brushed lightly along my upper arm.
“You are safe,” he said quietly.
The words threaded through the haze and landed somewhere deeper than they should have. I closed my eyes as the movie continued. The world narrowed to warmth and quiet and the steady rhythm of his breathing. The shift at the coffee shop, the missing check, the confusion about where this marriage ended and something real began—all of it dulled under the gentle float of the gummy and the solid presence beside me.
His fingers traced idle, absent patterns against my sleeve, and I curled a little closer without meaning to. I was in trouble because I didn’t just feel protected. I felt wanted.
And that was far more intoxicating than anything in my purse.
18
RAPHAEL
She fell asleep against me again without realizing she had done it.
One moment she was talking, and the next her breathing evened out against my chest. Her weight settled fully into me, trust without ceremony.
I did not move.
The movie continued playing in the background, some light, inconsequential storyline unfolding across the television, but I couldn’t have repeated a single detail of it. My attention had narrowed to the steady rhythm of her breath and the warmth of her body tucked against mine.
She smelled faintly of roses. The scent lingered in her hair where it brushed my jaw, and I found myself breathing it in without conscious thought.
This should bother me. For the second night in a row, I was trapped idly with nothing to do.
With Belle, it was different. I was increasingly fond of her.
Fond did not fully capture it. What I felt when she shifted in her sleep and tucked her face closer to my chest was something far more destabilizing.
I felt protective but not possessive, not in the way I was used to. This was more in the way one guards something unexpectedly precious.
I allowed myself one more quiet breath against her hair. I was filled with the intoxicating smell of roses.
Carefully, I slid my arm from beneath her shoulders, replacing it with a pillow before the absence of heat could wake her. She stirred slightly, lips parting, but did not open her eyes. I adjusted the blanket higher over her shoulder, making certain her knee remained supported before I stood.
The house was quiet as I stepped into my study and closed the door softly behind me.
I did not like leverage games, but I disliked incompetence more.
I pulled Tripp Whitaker’s number from recent calls and dialed.
He answered after two rings.
“Mr. Renault,” he said, tone already edged. “Didn’t expect to hear from you so soon. Is everything okay with Belle?”
