Page 199 of Captive Ruin

He closes the book with a snap and slides it down the side of the chair, then he’s on his feet with his usual grace, prowling toward me.

That may have been a mistake. He’s not a good boy at all.

I’ve taken a pace back before I’ve even thought about it. “What I meant was… uh…”

He keeps coming, stopping so close I have to look up to meet his gaze. “Morning,” he murmurs. “Sleep well?”

Okay, so not what I expected him to say.

And it brings back memories of him holding me in the night. The feel of his body pressed to my back. His hand cupping my breast. It’s been a long, long time since we’ve slept like that, and I slept as well as I have in ages. That’s disturbing.

He doesn’t need to know.

“Just fine.”

His lips twitch. “Me too, thank you for asking. I like the way you smell.”

He… what? Likes the way I smell?

The word makes me aware of his cologne, sandalwood and bergamot, the hint of his maleness beneath. It’s an effort not to inhale. Maybe I like the way he smells, too.

I’m still trying to come up with a reply, when he walks past, leaving me standing there, staring after him.

Bastard.

We don’t have a date scheduled that day, and I find myself wishing we had. The time alone has been important, but I’ve done all the processing I need to do. I’m ready to get on with my life, and not simply sit in sunrooms reading for the rest of the year.

He’s giving me space deliberately, it’s clear to me now. He wants me to yearn for him the same way I know full well he yearns for me.

That hasn’t happened yet, but I do miss his presence when he’s not around.

For once, I go looking for him. His office is empty, and I can’t hear him in the house. Instead, I find a note on the kitchen island.

I’ve gone into the city this afternoon. Bastien is over. Didn’t want to disturb you. Mozzarella salad in the fridge. Back late, so don’t feel a need to wait up. Date tomorrow? LVW.

Great, abandonment again.

I stomp upstairs to my room, indulging in a little good-for-the-soul petulance. I wouldn’t have minded being disturbed. What if something happens to him, and the last thing between us was a note on a countertop?

Him and his damn civility, not even saying goodbye. We’re having words in the morning.

Irritated, I go to bed.

A hand smothers my mouth, waking me. My body tenses, my heartrate jumping from calm to hammering in an instant.

It’s dark, but there’s light enough to recognize Van Wyk—who else?—and he’s almost naked, save for a pair of boxers.

Arousal uncurls within me, my whole body awake in an instant. Part of me isn’t sure I’m ready for this; the rest of me doesn’t care.

But my wrists aren’t cuffed. He’s not pinning me down; just the hand over my mouth.

“Quiet,” he breathes, right next to my ear, and his tone is deadly serious.

Fuck. What’s going on?

I nod to show I understand, my mouth suddenly dry, my palms sweating where I grip the sheets.

He lifts his hand away slowly, checks I’m not about to scream, then presses his finger to his lips for added reinforcement.