Page 57 of Bound By the Sleeper’s Harp

“So? Doesn’t make it any less of a rule.”

She squared her shoulders and planted her feet, crossing her arms. “And, what? You’re just going to start making up rules whenever you want?”

“My house. I can make whatever rules I want. Now, go get dressed.”

“I’m wearing this.”

He arched an eyebrow. “Pajama pants and a tank top? Well, all right. I don’t mind if your tits pop out. I certainly wouldn’t mind seeing them after last night.”

She growled—if it could be called that—and pushed past him, elbowing him as she went.

“Fine,” she hissed. “I’ll go change.”

He fought the smile threatening his face. Fought, and lost. Then he adjusted his pants and headed downstairs.

The sight of Eleanor, sweaty and panting, did so many things to him. She shot forward, trying to land a punch to his side. He dodged, moving slowly like a human might, then spun around and put her in a chokehold. She grabbed his forearm and dropped her shoulder, pulling him forward, then elbowed him, freeing herself from the hold. “Good,” he said, pleased. “You’re already better than you were an hour ago.”

She’d been taking MMA for a little over a year, and while it showed, she still needed work. Work he was happy to help her with. Especially if he got to watch her tight little ass in those little shorts.

“How long do we have to keep doing this?” she panted, bending over to plant her hands on her knees.

“‘Till I get tired of touching you, sugar.”

“You’re a pig.”

“Oh? Did you think so last night when I had my fingers inside you?”

“What the fuck?!” she sputtered. Her face turned a darker shade of red and she stalked away to the water dispenser. He watched her gulp down a full glass, watched the movement of her long throat before pulling his eyes away.

A quick glance in the mirrors showed him panting too, muscles corded from the increased blood flow. His long black hair was braided tightly down the side of his scalp. The shaved side was going to need attention in a couple of days.

His eyes flicked back to Eleanor. She was filling her glass again, probably stalling.

“What made you want to learn martial arts?” he asked, crossing his arms, watching her. He’d been curious but had refrained from voicing the question until now. She tensed, then shrugged. “In my experience, there’s always a reason. Want me to start guessing?”

She threw him a glare. He already had a solid theory. There was a reason he was good at his job. Drawing conclusions was one of them.

“All right,” he said, when she didn’t respond. “You said that asshole—Luke—trashed your apartment? The one manhandling you inappropriately behind the club? You’ve got some history with him?”

Her face, red with exertion only minutes ago, went pale.

His jaw tightened as a new realization struck him. The blood pumping past his ears turned to a roar. He took a step forward and she flinched—fucking flinched. Just like she’d done in the coffee shop. Which confirmed his worst fears.

“Did he hurt you, sugar? Before?” His voice was sharp enough to cut.

Her throat bobbed. She shook her head, then kept on shaking it.

“Well?” His fists clenched.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” she whispered. Then she spun and turned her back to him, fussing with the dispenser.

“No, fuck this. We’re talking about it.” He swallowed the distance between them and lifted a hand to reach for her. She flinched again, as if sensing it. He froze, arm outstretched, but didn’t lay a finger on her. He would never touch someone in such a state, never force his touch on anyone.

“Please, don’t,” she whispered as if reading his mind. His chest constricted.

“He fucking hurt you, didn’t he? You think I can’t tell what the aftermath of abuse looks like?”

He knew—all too well.