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How does that work?
I look in the bag to see a small but really nice stack of designer clothes. She’s a little thinner and taller than I am, but when I look closer I guess these aren’t just hers but maybe her sister’s as well. I pull out a pair of black leggings and pale green sweater and a pair of simple white underclothes still in the package.
I feel badly for not going to dinner last night. I wonder if Romeo will be angry with me.
Why do I care?
All I have to do is live here for the next twenty-nine days and I’m free and clear. I’m not marrying the guy. I’m not marrying any of them. But twenty-nine more days with my housing paid for, my food cooked for me, some companionship with his sisters, and a massive paycheck at the end? I’d have to be a fool not to want that.
I quickly change and feel faint with hunger at this point. I don’t hear any voices downstairs, but this castle is so solidly built, I don’t think that means no one’s downstairs.
I find a pair of flats at the bottom of the bag and slide them on. They’re a tad too tight and pinch a little, but they’ll do.
My head feels heavy, like I’m groggy from too much sleep, then I remember I haven’t had any coffee since yesterday morning. There’s coffee downstairs, and if yesterday’s food is any indication, it’ll be the good stuff.
I have to make myself go. No one’s going to do this for me. It feels like I’m the new girl on the first day of school, only ten times worse.
“I volunteer as tribute,” I mutter to myself.
I check my phone, butterflies erupting in my belly at the knowledge that I have to go downstairs. It isn’t the brothers I fear, though, nor really any of them.
Maybe he’s busy. Maybe he’s somewhere else…
I open the door and almost walk straight into a hard wall of muscle otherwise known as Romeo’s chest.
Maybe he’s standing right outside this door.
“Hey, sorry about that,” Romeo says. My heartbeat spikes at the sound of his voice. There’s still a raspy edge that scrapes across my nerves, but there’s a thawing to his tone I haven’t heard before. When he runs his fingers through his dark, curly hair, he looks almost boyish. “Didn’t mean to startle you.”
I’m suddenly very wide awake.
“Oh, no, it’s fine. Just thought I’d go downstairs for some breakfast.” My cheeks heat when I remember that I didn’t do what he told me the night before. When I remember how he said he’d treat disobedience. “I… I fell asleep.”
He doesn’t move to back up. He’s so close to me I could reach out and touch him. So close he could slide his hand along my lower back… So close, I note how he smells like spice and pine and all things masculine.
His eyes are sharp and assessing, full of intelligence and something more, something I can’t quite figure out. “I know.” His jaw tightens, and he puts his hands in his pockets, like he’s holding himself back and trying to play nice. “I’ll let it go this once.”
Or… what? I want to ask him. He’ll let it go? I bite down on my lip so I don’t snap out a sardonic reply, even as I combat undeniable excitement. He’s dangerous, so fucking dangerous, I feel just being in his presence is like toeing the edge of a cliff.
Why do I feel this magnetic attraction to him? Why do I want to take the one step to him? Run my fingers through that silky, tousled hair? Trace the rough edge of his jaw?
I nod. “Thanks.” My voice is almost a whisper. A part of me says this is wrong, that I shouldn’t have to thank him for letting me get away with not coming to dinner.
But a part of me’s already accepted this. Already accepted him. Maybe the threat of being punished by him did that.
“You look beautiful.” He speaks directly, without fanfare. I look down dumbly at the simple leggings and sweater, but before I can reply, he continues. “But I don’t like you wearing borrowed clothing. Since you’ll be here for the next month, I’ve had some things ordered for you.”
“Thank you?”
I don’t know what else to say. Before I can respond, he reaches for me. I stand, enraptured, watching his strong fingers and the palm of his hand as if in slow motion. He cradles the back of my head, and my eyelids flutter closed for a fraction of a second. It feels so good. It feels so right.
“You shouldn’t think so little of yourself.”
The gentle tone’s gone. His voice is back to gravel and concrete, his grip in my hair tightening.
“What makes you think I think so little of myself?” It’s hard to stand with my knees wobbling so hard, but he instinctively seems to know this. His free hand finds the small of my back and holds me up.
