Ensnared (Brutes of Bristlebrook, #1)(41)

What came over me last night? I was so nervous, then so mad at him. I wanted to push at him, throw him for a loop, like he did to me. Instead, I turned into some kind of wanton, furious, sex-hungry . . . harlot!

And with Jaykob, of all people. How did I let him bring that out in me? How can I possibly face him again? Just the thought of his harsh, sneering smirk makes me want to bury myself in my room and never come out. I’ve had bullies mock me before. I should have been collected and calm, the bigger person. I should have talked to him rationally.

I should not have come on his dick a half-dozen times and begged him for more.

The way he spoke to me . . . And I not only let him, I urged him on. I shiver at the memory. He more than obliged.

I’m going to have to do some Hail Marys or something. My grandmother would be so disappointed—she had grand hopes for my purity and godliness. She was the one who’d insisted on my name.

But Eden was never pure.

I was made to be corrupted.

Sitting up and putting on my discarded glasses, I look around the room. It’s destroyed. Pillows are flung around the room, clothes litter the floor, and the bed covers are rumpled. It smells like sex and sin. I smell like sex and sin.

How strange.

And why on earth do my lips want to twitch in satisfaction at that?

There’s an unfamiliar ache between my legs—not the pulsing need from last night, but a well-used soreness that, with every motion, sends vivid memories of how I obtained each spot of discomfort to my mind. Surprisingly, my stomach, arms and legs also quiver with weakness, as though I’ve put in hours at the gym.

The next room is quiet. He must have gone to the main house. My stomach falls. Is he filling the others in? Giving his review?

I pale. I clawed at him. Did I bite him? I wasn’t myself at all last night. I was just awful.

Though echoes of pleasure still ripple through my body, what if he doesn’t feel the same? Someone like Jaykob has probably been with dozens of experienced, sexy women who knew exactly how to blow his mind. I’m barely more than a virgin. What if he left so early because he doesn’t want to look at me? He was only “making do” with me, after all.

All the familiar doubts and self-consciousness that somehow abandoned me under his mouth and cock now come roaring back to life.

Though after we . . . did what we did . . . at least he didn’t sneer at me again. He’d fetched me water and something to eat, and gruffly rubbed arnica cream over my back and arms and legs, and when he stopped, we’d stared at each other so awkwardly that I was about to crawl under the bed to hide in embarrassment before he kissed me again.

Before he more than kissed me again.

I pick my clothes off the floor, then dubiously discard the torn panties. I’m about to put on the dress when I notice the top half of it is ripped down one side as well. With a sigh, I drop it. Unwilling to go back to the main house in my bare butt— there’s been enough of that on show, thank you very much—I go to the bedside table and look for a shirt.

A faded picture sits on top of remarkably neatly folded clothes. I pick it up, unable to curb my curiosity. Two young brown-haired boys sit on the fold-out steps of an old trailer, a woman in a long dress standing behind them. The boys have their arms around each other, and the smaller one on the left is missing a tooth as he grins at the camera. The larger boy wears a familiar smirk, though it holds none of the bitterness age would bring. They look happy.

The trailer is worn but well kept, the way my grandmother always kept hers. There’s a quiet pride in having nothing, sometimes. Everything you have becomes precious. Something to be protected.

Jayk and I are more alike than he knows.

I brush a finger over the photo. They must be his family. Did they pass away on Day Death? Or after, during the second wave? My chest cramps. By the time everything went south, I didn’t really have anyone left to mourn.

I bite my lip. He shouldn’t keep something this precious wrapped up in his clothes—it’s a good way to lose things. I spot a large metal toolbox on his dresser and slip the photo inside one of the empty compartments, resolving to let him know where I’ve put it later.

I pull out a blue T-shirt and it falls nearly to my knees. Quickly, I let myself out of the room and head back to the house, carrying my shoes. I’ve never done a walk of shame before and want more than anything not to have to face anyone before I’ve showered and pulled myself together.

Of course, I’m not that lucky.

Dom and Jasper stand by the large stone fireplace in the towering sitting room, arguing in low voices. Though I can’t make out his face from my place by the sliding door, Dom speaks with his hands—crisp, clipped motions—and his powerful shoulders are pushed back. I start to assume that he’s getting the best of Jasper, but a second glance makes me hesitate, then shiver.

Jasper’s motions are precise, careful, and only occasional. There’s a sharp expectation, a sense of stillness in his stance that reminds me of the mesmerizing threat of a coiled whip. His beauty is cold, carved with a delicate savagery.

Suddenly, I’m not quite certain which of the two men is the more dangerous.

In spite of my curiosity, my self-preservation is stronger. I can find out what they’re arguing about later—if anyone is feeling more willing to share today, that is.

That thought ignites that odd spark of anger all over again, but I shake my head at myself before the feeling grows. I need to get over it. I know what I signed up for. I can take being belittled and condescended to. For comfort and company? I will take a good many things.