“No!” Jax shouts, but she can’t help it—she laughs.
It’s real. Rich and throaty, and absolutely fucking decadent.
“Fine. Play by your rules. Boredom then the bedroom,” he grouses, acquiescing to her demands.As he always does.
Jax scoffs. “Cute of you to think we ever play by rules other than my own.”
He doesn’t.But he loves giving her the illusion that he’s hopelessly at her whim.
“Well that’s just rude, isn’t it?” Ronyn grouses, but he doesn’t stop smiling.
Rule number three: Let her be in control.
Jax cuts around a corner, and pulls up in front of a quaint building with a hanging sign.Vyrhal’s Luxury Inn.
The faint glow of guttering candles flickers through the shutters, and the sweet aroma of burnt rosemary wafts under the door like an invitation.
Jax boots the door open like she owns the place, and strides toward the front desk. “Room for two for the next few nights,” she says, and the words sound gruff, intolerant.
People always look surprised when they hear her speak. As if beauty were meant to quiet a woman. As if softness were the price of being seen. Jax has never paid it. Never would, if Ronyn knew her at all.
The world loves beautiful women most when they’re silent. When they’re afraid. Easier to manipulate. Easier to dominate. Easier to convince of their own inferiority. Jax has never subscribed to that particular stupidity, of course.
Neither has Ronyn. Because only a fool would look at a woman and see inferiority—they’d see the only thing that can bring a man to his godsdamned knees. He knew far too many brilliant, powerful women to do anything other than revere them.
Being beautiful has never obligated any of them to be quiet.
And thank the gods for that.
“We’re full up, dear,” the timid, elderly gentleman behind the desk says.
But Jax isn’t convinced. She leans over the desk, teeth bared. “Is that for everyone? Or just outsiders?” The words come out all venom, the challenge in them undeniable.
She hits a nerve, because the old man swallows thickly, a bead of sweat appearing on his brow.
“Look again. I think you’ll find something just opened up,” Jax croons, tone as sweet as honey. But everyone knows: this is a threat.
The man drags an ink-stained finger down the parchment. “Ah! Yes. You’re right. Room 26 available for the next three days. Must’ve missed it,” he says, submitting to her, and dropping the room key on the bench before her. “Two coppers should do it.”
Jax hands over the coins with a grunt and no gratitude, and ascends the stairs two at a time.
Ronyn follows, bounding up the stairs behind her, and following her down a long, carpeted hallway.
She opens the door in the only way she knows how: with her boot and a decent amount of force.
The room isn’t extravagant—a simple, large bed fills the space, a small dresser is pressed into the corner, and a velvet green chaise is set back against the wall. But it’s clean, warm, inviting.
Fawny-brown rugs blend beautifully with the forest-green of the drapes and furniture, the smallest accent of gold filigree lining the dresser and headboard.
Simple, but elegant.
A claw-footed bath is drawn in the corner of the room, filling the space with the scent of wild orange and vanilla. Bubbles settle on top of the water, as if this room had been prepared for an imminent guest.
“I suppose this room reallywasfull,” Jax giggles, showing no remorse.
“Devilish plans are kind of your thing, you know?” Ronyn quips, removing his weapons, his leather vest, and shucking them onto the chaise.
Jax does the same, her eyes fixed on Ronyn, and he knows that look—the look she gets when she knows she’s in control. Or she’s about to be.
