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And now this, Katura Ortiz, who dared to come close if only for a minute—poisoned.
It feels like no one should come close to me in this life. Maybe Dad is right for keeping me at arms’ length.
This is my last thought before I sink into darkness.
21
KAT
I had a strange dream.
It was dark, and I heard the shower going. My heart stilled as Archer walked out, padded toward the bed, and bent over. I thought he was going to kiss me. But no—he hovered over me for a moment, then quietly sank onto the floor, his back against the bed. I heard the glass clink softly against the floor. His heavy exhale. Then the room got brighter, the blinds half-open, and I saw Archer’s head tilted against the mattress. Sleeping.
It must be the damn drug that Doc gave me, because when I open my eyes, the room is bright with sunlight and empty.
No Archer.
The asshole made it into my dreams. Great.
My body is unusually languid. The silky sheets caress me between my legs. Guys think their morning hard-ons are exclusive. Well, women wake up rested and have the same arousing tingling in their bodies.
Maybe it’s just me. My self-care is usually a morning thing, and I press my hand over the sheets between my legs, rubbing out the need that burns in me.
The bed smells like Archer. It’s like waking up in his embrace. I close my eyes and slip my hand under the sheet and between my leg.
Soaking wet. How does he do it without being here?
No, bad idea.
I force myself to stop and sit up. It’s quiet, and I slide from under the blanket and swing my feet off the bed.
The sheets are dark-gray—seriously, Archer has an obsession with that color—and so silky that I don’t want to get off the bed. I stretch and throw a glance down my body.
Shit…
What’s with this shirt? It’s lighter in color almost all the way through, but there are dark-red, almost burgundy spots, like tie-dye along the bottom where I touched myself.
Did I ruin it?
And then I pause, gaping at the stone shelf next to the bed—my clothes from yesterday, including my bra and panties, neatly stacked on top of it.
Well, well, if Mr. Chancellor is not efficient. Or his housemaid, or whoever takes care of this place. I know he has a cleaning lady—I’ve seen one when he locked me up here for a night.
Something else makes me huff in surprise—the cuffs with chains fixed to the foot-tall bedposts.
Really?
So, Mr. Chancellor likes it slightly kinky.
Smiling, I shed the shirt and change into my clothes, then give the shirt another suspicious glance and grab it off the bed, intending to wash it later.
The living room is quiet, save for the soft sounds that come from the kitchen. My heart answers with an excited tug as I walk around a stone slab and into the kitchen space.
The smell of croissants and fried bacon wafts into my nostrils, and before I register who is in the kitchen, a chirpy voice stops me in my tracks.
“Good morning, miss.”
The lady is short, in her fifties, wearing a blue apron and a wide smile. “I’m Alma. Breakfast?”
