Page 216 of The Edge of Darkness

Perhaps staying was the best option.

I crooked a finger for the flask once more. Gulping down a generous amount, I said, “We can stay for the night, if that’s what you want.”

Her eyes narrowed on me as she silently calculated her response.

This was normally where the wall would go back up between us. Brick by brick, she would ice me out, and I would end up right back where I started—pissed off and painfully aroused.

I held my breath, waiting for what felt like minutes as she decided whether or not she wanted to take a different route than all the other times before.

A clap of thunder rattled the cottage, snapping her out of her internal debate, and slowly . . .

She pushed to her feet.

No. No. Fuck.

When she stood and walked off into the other room, my heart sank, and the feeling of defeat—a feeling I absolutely despised—crept over me like a suffocating shadow.

What went wrong? Nothing. Absolutely fucking noth⁠—

I froze mid-thought when she reappeared in the doorway, holding a bundle of folded fabric in her arms.

“You can bed down here.” She flicked her eyes to the rug beneath us.

I tilted my head, thoughts spiraling at the complete mind-fuck this was turning into.

But she was here . . . with a blanket in her arms . . .

She hadn’t shut me out after all.

I could have sworn there was a bit of reluctance in her expression as she glanced down at the rug again, but she didn’t suggest an alternate sleeping option for me. If she wanted me to share her bed, she sure as hell wasn’t going to say it outright, that much was clear.

The rug would do just fine. I certainly wouldn’t be making myself at home in the chair that looked like it was fit for a youngling. And with everything that was running through my mind, I probably wouldn’t get much sleep to begin with. I waited a moment before saying, “Perfect.”

She shifted on her feet, and the movement had me convinced she was waiting for me to beg permission to join her. But I wouldn’t give her the satisfaction, nor would I chance that being the thing that pushed her over the edge, and risk her completely rescinding the offer to stay.

“If you need a pillow, there’s one in the cabinet over there.” She nudged her chin toward a small piece of furniture opposite from the foot of the bed. Then, once again, she looked up at me as if to say, You sure you don’t want to ask to join me?

“I’ll be fine,” I said in regards to the pillow. “I’ve slept with less.”

She chewed on her bottom lip—too fucking seductively for it to be a nervous habit. I held her stare until she dropped an embroidered quilt in my arms and left me standing in front of the hearth.

I placed the blanket on the chair, toeing off my boots, all while eyeing her as she sat on the edge of the bed and removed her own shoes.

Once barefoot, she slowly stood, her eyes meeting mine again. Her hands drifted to the fasteners that held the simple leather corset around her waist. With the flick of her fingertips, the band came undone, and she removed the garment and tossed it to the side.

Her pants were next. She tugged them down her legs, one by one, never breaking eye contact.

I had to remind myself to breathe.

Then came her undergarments, which she slid down her bare legs and flung to the foot of the bed like they were nothing but string. Finally, her hands drifted to the hem of the long shirt that covered every private area of her body . . . and halted.

“Turn around,” she instructed.

I held up my hands in a mocking show of surrender, and did as she said.

Behind me, fabric rustled then fell to the floor.

Gods, she was . . . I turned just in time to catch a glimpse of her bare body slipping beneath the bedsheets.