Page 34 of The Hood and his Thief

Rhosyn didn’t back down from a challenge. Not from a rival gang in her youth—as evidenced by the slight bend in her nose and her callused knuckles—or from a difficult case facing her as a police officer.

Her fingers drifted towards the button of her pants, slowly but deliberately. Refusing to undress now, when Ansel had already reminded her of her former indecent exposure, would be admitting that she had something to be embarrassed about.

To his credit, Ansel didn’t watch her undress, the rustling of the bedding indicating that he was busy sliding under the covers as Rhosyn slid her pants down her legs, kicking them off on top of her boots. The shirt Paul had dug up for her was long enough to cover her hips and the very top of her thighs, but plenty of skin was still on display.

She made a point not to hurry her movements as she turned to slide her bare legs beneath the sheets, despite the goosebumps rising on her thighs. Rhosyn hoped Ansel couldn’t see them.

When she settled beneath the covers, she chanced a glance at him, finding him determinedly staring at his own fingernails. Part of her relaxed at the thought of him not trying to disarm her further with his proximity. Another smaller and more rebellious part in the back of her mind—the part of Rhosyn she had been determined to shove into a tiny drawer since she left the Lions—was disappointed that he hadn’t looked. After all, how could you win the challenge if your opponent didn’t show up to the fight?

The rough sheets rubbed against her bare skin as she slid down, pulling the blankets up to her chest. She tried to focus on getting comfortable, and not the warmth radiating from beside her, when a sudden shift made her freeze.

Rhosyn’s breath stole from her lungs and Ansel rolled towards her, propping up on one elbow to lean over her. His unlaced shirt gaped open, giving her an unobstructed view of a broad chest dusted with dark hair, just inches from her nose.

“Wrist,” Ansel prompted expectantly.

Rhosyn didn’t move, her suddenly addled brain struggling to catch up with his request. When she simply stared, Ansel dangled a looped rope before her face, snapping her back to reality.

She resumed breathing and rolled her eyes all at once.

“You lock me in a room with you and still insist on tying me to the bed? One might think you expect me to cause trouble.” Still, she held out her arm.

The scrape of rope against the soft skin of her inner wrist was enough to keep her cognizant of why it was imperative to keep her guard up around Ansel. Sympathetic as his story might be, he was a criminal, and she was a police officer.

Besides, resuming breathing meant being engulfed by his sweet and sharp burnt sugar scent again, and the sooner he leaned away, the sooner she could get back to building a mental wall between them.

When the knot was tied to his satisfaction, he rolled back to his side of the bed, and Rhosyn looked up to survey his handiwork. Once again, the knot was expertly tied, but not so tight as to be dangerous. The other end was affixed to the headboard.

“Aren’t you concerned I’ll untie myself?” she asked against her better judgment.

“I’d be more concerned with you picking a lock if I had cuffed you, but my trapeze artists’ lives depend on me being able to tie a knot that can’t be undone with just one hand. And I should wake up if you try to rip another bed in half.”

Rhosyn slumped back against her pillow. It wasn’t like she would run anyways—not with Paul and Olivia still at risk of being returned to the servitude they ran from so fervently.

“Good night, Rhosyn.” Ansel snuffed out the lantern at the side of the bed, and they were plunged into darkness.

As his breathing slowed to a deep, even rhythm, Rhosyn urged herself to stay alert. Tied in the bed of a wanted criminal, she should be a sleepless mess, especially after so much rest in the preceding day. Maybe if she tossed and turned enough, she could keep Ansel awake too, and he would slip up in his resulting exhaustion.

She stared at the ceiling, trying to run over the events of the day with an analytical mind—to find a weakness of Ansel’s she could exploit without putting Olivia and Paul in harm’s way.

Her bedmate shifted in his sleep, reducing the distance between them to mere inches, the warmth of him seeping through the sheets and the minimal layers of clothing between them. Even now, the faintest burnt sugar scent still permeated her brain, likely worn into the pillow beneath her head.

Her eyelids grew impossibly heavy, and as she closed her eyes, she tried to justify to herself that there wasn’t much to be done right now anyway. The last thought that flickered through her brain before sleep took her was that escaping might not be the issue—maybe it would be remembering that she was a hostage at all.

The sheets chilled Rhosyn’s bare skin as she woke. She moved to pull the blankets more closely around her and tugged at the forgotten bind around her wrist. The chafe of rope snapped her back to reality and her eyes sprang open. But when she turned her head, the pillow beside her was empty, barely a dent left where Ansel’s head had been, making it seem as if she had imagined his presence. It might have been a comforting thought, given how well rested she felt, when she should have spent a sleepless night in the bed of her enemy.

A clearing of a throat drew her attention and her eyes snapped to the corner the noise came from. Scrunched onto a small stool sat Little John, knees nearly coming to his chest as he folded himself onto furniture clearly not built for someone of his stature.

“Do you make a habit of watching people sleep?” she grumbled, voice scratchy.

“I do when Ansel tells me to.” Little John seemed to be fixedly staring at some point beside her shoulder as he spoke.

Curious, Rhosyn glanced down and found the cause for his reticence. She had managed to tangle her legs with the blankets, leaving the entirety of their length visible. Even more, her long shirt had ridden up with her unconscious movement, a generous curve of hip on display. She quickly yanked down her clothes to keep herself decent.

Perhaps she should have felt embarrassed at the strong man having had such a view, but she was only mildly amused by his embarrassment.

“You’re fine with holding me hostage and leaving me tied to your boss’s bed, but a little thigh is where you draw the line?” Rhosyn teased.

“Don’t drag me into it. This was all Ansel’s idea.” Little John folded his arms, meaty biceps threatening the seams of his shirt at the motion.