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.
Jasper steps out from a metal door, then a bookcase slowly swings back into place behind him.
My jaw drops.
Just in that moment before he spots me, something about him seems off. There’s a cruel set to his mouth, an unhappy cast to his eyes, an unsteadiness in his slow steps. His usual poise is unbalanced, like he’s teetering on some unfathomable precipice.
“You— You actually have a secret passageway. Behind a bookcase.” I pinch my nose under my glasses, trying to control my rapid, startled breathing. “Did I really just see that?”
Jasper’s head snaps up, and his eyes run over me with cool precision. His face barely shifts, but amusement warms his eyes ever so slightly and that off feeling recedes. He walks toward me with the casual grace of a dancer, as though that instability I spotted was a dream.
“A little on the nose, perhaps, but I couldn’t resist. My study,” he explains, “and where I operate our surveillance.”
I nod weakly. Searching for something to say, I glance around the room. “I can’t believe you didn’t show me this library.” I smile at him. “It’s lovely.”
“I’ve been enjoying sharing my favorites with you.” His lips curl up on one side. “And I was worried I’d lose you in here.”
I let out a little laugh. “You still might.”
He plucks the book from my hands; I didn’t even realize I was gripping it.
“Ah, Nietzsche. I find his thoughts on master–slave morality fascinating,” he murmurs.
Pausing, I scan his forbidding features from under the rim of my glasses. His sweet, comforting silence is apparently over, and there’s something behind his words that puts me on guard. I can’t help but remember Beau’s words— I might expect her to look like this after Jasper.
Nervousness thrills up my spine, and I bite my lip. “I find it hard to relate to anyone who thinks that ‘To see others suffer does one good, to make others suffer even more.’ It’s a rather permissive opinion, don’t you think?”
The first full smile I’ve seen from him creases his cheek, and I can’t help but stare at the pleat, my heart stuttering. He catches my stare, absorbing me for the first time since the first time we spoke. That off feeling has entirely vanished, and I feel myself floating into his orbit again. Alone in a beautiful abyss with a perilous man.
Something predatory glints in his eyes. “I wonder if you’ll feel that way at the end of the week.”
My eyes narrow, and my romantic imaginings skid to a halt. Did he mean that as the threat it sounded like?
Before I can respond, Jasper continues smoothly, “But a somewhat simplistic interpretation; he also said, ‘Mistrust all in whom the impulse to punish is powerful.’”
I blink. Did he just—？ It isn’t often I’ve been called simplistic. My lips curve in a wry smile. “So, should I mistrust you, Jasper?”
I meant it as a joke, but I don’t win another smile.
He replaces the book carefully, then studies me. A moment of silence, then another, and I become very aware of his hard body right before me and the considering weight of his gaze. I remember the dangerous confidence with which he spoke to Dom this morning and shiver.
“Only if you have done something that warrants punishment,” he says finally.
Unbidden, thoughts of Henry come to mind, and I only just stop myself from flinching. He liked his little punishments too.
Nothing physical, never that, but he had a perfect knack for petty cruelty.
Before emotion can swamp me, I turn back to the bookshelf and reply, “Show me someone who hasn’t in this world.”
Determined to change the subject, I shake my head and study the books. “No offense, but this library looks like it was put together by a monkey.”
Jasper steps in close behind me. “More insults. You’re rather free with them.”
He’s warm and close enough that I can sense his every movement, but far enough that we aren’t touching. Giving me the choice to lean back or not.
I hesitate, torn between shyness and slow, slippery desire. Instinctively, I tilt my head until the breeze of his breath stirs the tiny hairs on the nape of my neck. I shudder.
Darn it, is no topic safe with this blasted man?
Desperate to escape his confusing nearness, I drop into a crouch and pull The Witches free.
Compared to the bookish coziness of his presence from the last few days, the sudden onslaught of Jasper’s attention feels like a lethal advance. It makes my adrenaline pump and flight instincts flare, warning me to run, run now, because I’m suddenly sure he’s done it on purpose, that he laid his trap and lured me in with books and quiet company, and soon he’ll have me pinned, at his mercy, and that’s just . . .
I swallow hard. Bad? That’s bad, right?
My fingers quiver on the illustrated cover, and I consider that my new position at his feet may not have been the best choice. His presence over me is delightfully omnipotent and reminds me powerfully of Jaykob’s hand tangling in my hair while I knelt for him and— No! Stop, Eden. What on earth is getting into me these days?
“D-do you have an interest in philosophy, then?” I ask, flustered and embarrassingly breathless. Honestly, it would really help matters if I didn’t sound like some scarlet woman out of a low-budget pornographic film.
When I’m certain I have myself under control, I show him the miscategorized Dahl classic with a small smile, and manage —in a much more civilized tone—to tease, “Making a statement on the dichotomy of good and evil in children’s books?”