Page 47 of His Pretty Little Queen

He doesn't smile, and I wish I knew why. "Do you like your room?"

I beam at him, hoping my happiness will find his hiding away inside his serious façade.

"I've seen better," I tease, walking towards him, reaching up to touch the light bristles along his jawline. "Why are you so grumpy right now, Sir?Whatchahiding from me?"

He ignores my questions. "I have entertainment planned for you, sweet girl. But you can do anything that pleases you as long as it isn't dangerous."

"Bummer," I mock, trying to lighten this dark, breathtaking man, "because I very much like doing you."

Classic, clever, one of my best, and yet it goes completely unappreciated as he zeros in on a desk in the corner of the room. My hand slips from his cheek as he strides over and takes a seat in front of it. "I'll shower then… if that's okay, Sir?" I call over to him, unable to stifle the bratty tone circling each word.Is he pushing me away again?

This is such bullshit.

He calls me the "teenage girl" but has the grunts and disinterest of a teenage boy sometimes.

Around the room, we are not alone. Four foreign henchmen, HJ and HN converse quietly.

My new Louis Vuitton case lies on the bed, and the lady who put it there is busying herself unpacking and hanging up my clothes. What do privileged people do for themselves?

Shower, I think.

I grab my toiletry bag from within the silk-lined mould of the luggage.

As I near the bathroom, I catch Henchman Jeeves’ attention and shrug questioningly. He nods in an "it'll be okay" kind of way.

Whatever.

* * *

After my shower,I lie on top of the sheets, facing the wrong way so I can watch Clay at his desk. He's magnificent even as he ignores me—neglects me.

That's pathetic, Fawn.

He dotes on you.

The little girl with abandonment issues in me experiences the burn of his lacklustre attention. I need his eyes on me like I need air. It isn't fair on him, though.

His mind is somewhere else—not on me—furrowed brows screaming his concern etched to his masculine face.

I sigh, willing the pathetic self-doubt away. I can't be arduous work for him, or he'll realise I'm not worth the trouble.

The rational side of me reminds me of our conversation on the plane. How he reassures me at every turn that I am his. That I'm safe.

But why did he bring me here if only to work?

It's a selfish question, coming from the girl with nothing to do—not even unpack her own suitcase. I want to ask about his work, but there is a battle going on in my mind, wanting to please him, notburdenthis important man because I'm needy-as-fuck and he'll realise that and wish he’d never told me to speak my mind in the first place because maybe I'm better as something quiet to look at—God. Shut up, Fawn.

But then he did tell me to use my voice…

Or does that only apply to issues regarding me?

Or can I ask him about his business?

"What is worrying you, little deer?"

I smile; his voice is like a smooth blanket sliding along my thighs and legs, reminding me that he sees all, and knows everything. He's perfection.

How did I get this lucky?

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