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Even now, thinking about it makes my cheeks burn.
It’s ridiculous. He might suspect that he was the star of my dirty dream, but he never said anything to confirm it. Regardless of that fact, I can’t be near him.
This is going to be a problem.
When he left me to roam earlier, his parting words were a direct command to be back in his room by nine. It’s one minute past nine, and I have no doubt that pisses him off.
Knowing my time is running out before he comes to find me, I decide to head to his room.
Better to face the storm head-on.
As soon as I push open his bedroom door and walk inside, I regret it.
I’m never prepared for him.
Certainly not ready for the way he looks at me, and worse, the way I feel when he does.
His gaze flitters over me, lingering in places it shouldn’t.
But this time, he’s not looking at me with desire. It’s something else.
Gideon strides toward me, and I back away from him as he advances; his eyes seem cold and hard. “Hiding from me.” It’s a statement, not a question.
“Not that it’s any of your business, but no. Hiding from you would imply—”
He takes another step closer, and this time when I move, my back hits the door.
“That you’re scared of me.” Another statement.
Another step.
“I’m not.” My head shakes back and forth. “I just don’t want to sleep in here.”
“Well, unfortunately for you, I don’t particularly care.” His arms land on the door, on either side of my head, caging me in.
He’s too close. Way too close.
I push on his chest, and he staggers backward. I don’t pay him attention as I make my way into the center of the large room, heading straight for the closet.
My makeshift bed is gone, and the sheet and blanket are missing as well.
I spin around to find Gideon in the doorway, smirking.
I glower at him. “Where is my bed?”
His face is unreadable. His jaw is tight, and his lips form a straight line.
“Where. Is. My. Bed?” I repeat, biting each word with more menace than the one before.
He shrugs.
The room feels heavy with the silence, but when I follow his gaze to the king-size bed across the room from where we stand, it feels downright suffocating.
“I am not sleeping in that bed with you,” I say, pointing at the offending piece of furniture.
“Sasha,” he growls. “You’re being stubborn. I can tell you’re sore. You’ve been stretching and wincing all day.”
“How the hell would you know that?” I snap. “Spying on me again?”
