Ensnared (Brutes of Bristlebrook, #1)(49)
And my stupid masochistic heart knocks out a few ribs at his instant defense.
His pale jaw clenches, and his black hair is discomposed. Haltingly, he says, “I need to work through a few things. I fear . . . I fear that I need to make some decisions.”
As though that explains anything.
“Decisions,” I echo, heart sinking. He fears. That doesn’t sound like a man ready to make a wild declaration of love.
“About me?”
Jasper falters, but there’s a hint of shame in his slight grimace.
“Right,” I breathe. Everything inside me is shredding to pieces. I’ve been shot and it hurt less than this conversation. Hot tears prick the back of my eyes, and I rub the back of my neck, hoping it might somehow knock the hot lump out of my throat as well. “So I should blow my chance with Eden and just . . . wait until you decide whether I’m worth it?”
Jasper steps forward again. I retreat but find myself up against a cabinet. Did I think this kitchen was big? It’s a matchbox, and he’s the lit match, sucking down all my oxygen.
“Lucien—”
“Y’all might want to move your asses, Dom’s pitching a fi—” The swinging door crashes back against Beau’s outstretched hand as he cuts off, taking in the scene.
Jasper turns, angling his body so I’m not in full view. Instantly, all vulnerability flees from his face, leaving only cold, forbidding marble in its place.
That’s what he is, I realize. Unfeeling, untouchable, beautiful art. And I can stare at him all day but, really, he’s never going to look back.
Beau looks up at the ceiling like he suddenly finds cornices fascinating. “I’ll— Ah. I’ll tell him you’ll be a few more minutes.”
Fucking. Fantastic.
While neither of them are looking, I swipe a hand over my eyes.
Somehow, Beau beats a retreat even faster than he arrived. And right now? That looks like a damn fine idea.
I sidestep around Jasper before he turns back to me and walk toward the door as quickly as I can without being accused of running.
“We’re not done here, Lucien,” Jasper says, but the hint of panic takes the usual weight from his implied order.
I stop. “I think we are, actually,” I tell him as I crack in a thousand places. “We are done, Jasper.”
Now I just need to get through one whole meeting without shattering completely.
Chapter 15
Eden
SURVIVAL TIP #183
“The lonely one offers his hand too quickly to whomever he encounters.”
L ooking around, I finally, reluctantly, have to admit there’s nothing more I can do to tidy my room. I never made it down to breakfast, though someone—Lucky?—left a plate of delicious pancakes that dripped with melted chocolate by my door, which staved off my hunger at least.
Before the strikes, I only rarely had heavy carbs or sugar, though I have a terrible sweet tooth. My grandmother never allowed it, making it clear she couldn’t spare the expense. And Henry, well, he controlled everything so tightly. At first, he’d delighted in having me sample every sweet and delicacy I’d never been able to afford as a child. But over time they became a treat, a reward only given when I especially pleased him—and that became a very rare thing.
Lucky’s pancakes were delivered free of judgment or condition, and I savored every morsel with carnal delight.
I’m now glowing clean, the night’s sticky sin scrubbed off my skin. My tight bun is back in its place, and I’ve donned the most conservative clothes that Beau and Dom brought me. Looking down at the tight pencil skirt and silk blouse, I’m reminded more of a caricature of a secretary than anything else, but at least it has the illusion of professionalism.
My very own version of body armor.
Though . . . the way the skirt presses my sore thighs together makes me uncomfortably aware of my body and what it’s been through in the last twenty-four hours. Memories of Jaykob’s tight grip biting into my hips makes heat snarl low in my stomach.
Shaking off the scandalous urge to dip my fingers between my thighs and relieve the pressure, I leave my room to explore the rest of the house. Crossing the inner balcony, I duck into the left side corridor. One room, a mirror to my own, is open, and a grand piano rests on the raised platform. Cozy sofas and beautiful artwork decorate the room, and the large window opens on a gorgeous view of the woods and mountains.
Deeper into the corridor, creeping into the stone of the mountain, three doors are closed. Those, I ignore. Very possibly they’re bedrooms, and I don’t want to happen upon anyone if I can help it. At the end of the corridor, there’s another open door, and with a moment’s hesitation, I step inside.
My breath leaves me in a pleased sigh.
Towering bookshelves of rich, dark wood line the hexagonal room, and shorter bookcases divide the center. Books of all colors, shapes, and sizes fill the space, and comfortably lived-in reading chairs are placed at clever intervals. I’m flooded by scents of dusty pages and leather covers and the uniquely nostalgic scent of the special glue that holds them all together. Warm light slips under lampshades and soaks the room in a romantic golden haze.
I’ve been wandering for twenty minutes and am fingering a leather-bound copy of On the Genealogy of Morality by Friedrich Nietzsche—placed beside Roald Dahl’s The Witches, of all things—when a hissing, mechanical sound behind me makes me shriek and spin around.