Page 212 of A Vicious Love

“He also created tribunal exposure that took eleven months to suppress. The weather grid has governance locks now.”

The rain beat harder against the glass, as if the sky agreed with me.

My plan had been simple.

Arrive. Avoid every fucking activity on the schedule. Keep Sienna locked in this cabin with me until I figured out how to make her stop thinking I wanted a way out of her life.

In my head, it stayed ugly and honest.

I wanted her here. In this room. On this couch. In the bed. Close enough to monitor, touch, feed, frustrate, calm, and possess with a level of attention that would probably get me compared to Marcel if Harrison ever learned enough to run his mouth.

That was the worrying part.

I understood desire with women in clubs, the structure had edges. Sir existed behind closed doors with rules agreed before anyone’s pulse climbed.

Sienna would never be an ending. With her, I wanted twenty-four hours and every room after it.

I wanted to know every body ache after rehearsal. I wanted to decide who came near her when she was tired. I wanted my ring on her hand, my name over every legal document that had ever treated her as a transferable clause, my mouth against her.

My body kept wanting Daddy from her.

That was the dangerous word.

Sir belonged to rooms.

Daddy belonged to life.

And God help me, I preferred Daddy.

Fuck.

I was turning into Marcel.

I looked back at the storm.

The memory of her on my lap returned with brutal clarity.

Wet hair. Torn blue fabric. Wide eyes. Her hands on me. Her naked and shaking under my jacket, trusting me enough to breathe when I told her how.

My cock, which had apparently recovered from the trauma faster than my soul, approved of the memory with enthusiasm.

“Unhelpful,” I muttered.

Reeves looked up. “Sir?”

“Nothing.”

The stairs made a soft sound.

I turned before I meant to.

Sienna came down slowly, one hand trailing along the rail. She had changed into a summer dress I was beginning to hate for religious reasons.

Pale peach. Thin straps tied on her shoulders. A loose bodice that skimmed her chest and gathered under her breasts, then fell soft around her thighs. The hem reached mid-thigh. The fabric looked light enough to tear with two fingers. One bow sat high on her shoulder. Another at the opposite strap. Her hair had dried in loose dark waves.

My dick approved.

My entire fucking bloodline approved.