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He watches after her. “I need to put like ten babies in that woman.” I grimace, but school my features before he notices. “Sure you don’t want to stick around? Or better yet, bring your gift out with you. Could be fun.”
If he touched Sunday, I’d deglove his hands. Slowly. With something blunt.
He reads my expression and laughs. “That face says a thousand fucking words. Go have fun. Your room is down the hall, all the way to the right. If you hit the indoor pool, you’ve gone too far.” I fucking hate rich people. “Oh, and … be careful with that one.” I arch a brow, lingering in the hope I can find out a little more about Sunday’s presence here. I’ll ask her, but Felton’s perspective could be interesting. “She’s not our usual hire.” When I stay in place, he lowers his voice and leans close. “Not broken. She’ll be a fighter, so if you need any extra medicinal help, let me know.”
I should expect this. These people are the epitome of scum, so of course Felton thinks I’m going to force myself on Sunday.
But I’ve been the delivery guy, the muscle, the one Felton can rely on. Not a fellow fucking rapist.
It knocks me beyond sick, and I have to turn away. He calls after me to have fun, and by the time I reach my bedroom, I’ve bitten into my cheek so hard I can taste blood.
I refocus on Sunday. She’s just on the other side of this door, and I allow the image of her face in my mind to calm me. I have no fucking idea how she’s going to react to all this. The last time we were face to face I lied to her, and if she’s anything like I remember, she’ll remind me of that. Loudly.
The keypad on the right of my bedroom door has a small, dark screen, and I press my thumb against it. The lock clicks.
Gripping the handle, I close my eyes, pulling in one final breath.
I can do this. I can explain everything, and maybe she won’t hate me, but if she does, I’ll accept it. I can’t blame her if she wants to keep her distance.
I open the door, and stride inside. A large, queen-sized bed is set against the far wall and flanked by two floor-to-ceiling windows, a view of the forest beyond. Two floor lamps are lit, a soft, amber glow lighting up the room.
And her.
Sunday is sitting at the end of the bed, but she stands once she sees me. She’s in heels and black lingerie, stockings attached to a garter belt, lace barely concealing the skin beneath it.
The last time I saw her alone, she was in a hoody and jeans. She was twenty-one, I was twenty-two, and I loved her. I loved her so fucking much that sometimes I felt like I’d die if we ever separated.
But things changed.
I changed.
The door locks behind me, and Sunday opens her mouth to speak, but I shake my head, tapping my ear. Felton promises his guests privacy, but he likes to watch people fuck, and given his offer earlier, he’ll want to watch us, too.
My suitcase is by a second door to the right, so I go to it, unzipping it and taking out a small, black device. Felton allowed me to pack this because he likes fucking with me, so I unfold the black tube, flick it on, and check the room for listening devices.
It takes close to thirty minutes until I’m satisfied the room is clean. I find one camera and two mics, and tear both out, because Felton will find it hilarious and not suspicious. He’s probably laughing his head off at the now blank live stream, and Darcy will be sulking.
Once the check is complete, I close the device and face a woman I’m convinced might hate me forever.
“Hello, Sunday.”
Chapter 4
Cage
Sunday clenches and unclenches her fists at her side. Close to a minute of silence passes, but I say nothing else, too afraid to fuck it up already.
“So, it’s really you, then.”
I nod. “It is.” She stares at me, her eyes shining, but Sunday rarely cries. The day I left was a rare occurrence, and that’s likely why it broke me so fucking much. She’s far more likely to bury her hurt, but maybe her latest therapist is helping her process her feelings. Guilt swirls in my gut that I’m likely the cause of her pain, but that’s a feeling I’m far too fucking familiar with. “I’m sorry for earlier. I shouldn’t have kissed you, but I couldn’t risk you saying my name.”
The switch in her expression from uncertain to rageful has my blood pumping.
This is how it always was between us. We’d fight, we’d fuck, a few weeks would pass, then we’d fight again. She was jealous, I was too, and I fucking adored her, but she knew exactly how to piss me off, and I wasn’t any better. We never fought about anything serious. It was silly, petty things you care about when you’re teenagers in love. But I craved the push and pull, the fire between us, and so did she.
She glares at me. “That’s what you’re apologizing for? You’re sorry about a kiss when you should be apologizing for the last ten years!”
There’s the Sunday I know and love. Bright eyes. Flushed cheeks. A fire that bursts to life at a moment’s notice. “You’re still quick to temper, then.”
