Total pages in book: 108
Estimated words: 103712 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 519(@200wpm)___ 415(@250wpm)___ 346(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 103712 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 519(@200wpm)___ 415(@250wpm)___ 346(@300wpm)
“Breakfast.” He cracked eggs into a bowl with the precision of a chef. “You need protein. Something to put color back in those cheeks. Scrambled or fried?”
As if summoned by his words, her stomach produced an embarrassing rumble that made him glance over his shoulder and grin.
“Scrambled eggs it is.” He had no issue deciding for her.
She wondered if he’d honor her choice and give in to her preference if she spoke up. Tugging the sweater down to her knees, she watched him cook, fascinated by him despite her unease.
His movements were economical, precise, like he’d performed this ritual thousands of times before. Did they frequently find women trapesing around their halls in the middle of the night? Something about this seemed too practiced.
He whisked the eggs into silky batter as butter heated in a pan. When he pulled fresh herbs from a drying rack in the corner, she wondered how any garden could thrive in this Arctic wasteland. They must have trucks delivering goods, which meant trucks would also leave.
“You don’t look like a cook,” she said in an attempt to make small talk.
“What do I look like?”
She studied the strong line of his jaw and the golden hair curled at his nape. His casual strength was evident in every movement. “Dangerous.”
“I am dangerous.” He glanced at her, ice-blue eyes dancing with amusement and darker promises. “But I’m also practical. Can’t survive on takeout forever. And we get very few deliveries out here over the winter months,” he added, as if sensing her train of thought.
“Do you live here year-round?”
“This is our home—among other things.” He slid perfectly scrambled eggs onto bone china and set the plate in her hands. “Eat.”
“Fork?”
He shook his head slowly, as if daring her to disobey. “Use your fingers.”
Was that because he was testing her, or because he didn’t trust her around sharp objects? She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of a challenge. Plucking up a cluster of fluffy eggs, she popped them in her mouth and nearly moaned.
The eggs were creamy and rich with hints of fresh chives and something that might have been truffle oil. “Wow.”
“I’m glad you approve.” He grinned. “Now me.”
She stilled, and understanding dawned.
Pinching another delicate cluster between her fingers, she slid it into his mouth. He caught her wrist the moment she tried to pull away, forcing her hand to stay there as he sucked them clean, his eyes watching her response closely.
When he released her, she continued to stare. No one had ever licked her hand like that.
“Keep eating, printsessa. It’s getting cold.”
To her, it felt warm. She tried to eat slowly, to maintain some dignity, but hunger won out. Within minutes, the plate was empty, and she was licking her fingers much like he had.
“Better?” Ash asked, his voice warm with approval.
“Much.” She felt almost human again. “Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me yet.” His smile held shadows that quickened her pulse. “It’s time to test your commitment.”
Before Marigold could ask what he meant, he took the plate from her hands and pressed her shoulder, forcing her to lie down on the countertop. “What are you—”
“Relax.” He slid a dishcloth under her head. “I want to see if you’re strong enough to follow through on your promises.”
“Why?”
“Because we always do.”
Her back flattened onto the cool marble countertop, and her heart thundered in her chest. All sense of safety gone.
Chapter 6
Reluctant Submission
Eyes wide, Marigold watched as Ash rounded the island, coming to stand behind her head. His thumbs found the knots of tension at the base of her neck, pressing with just enough pressure to make her gasp with relief.
“You’re wound tight as a spring,” he murmured, his breath warm against her ear as he leaned close. “When’s the last time you truly let your guard down? Really let go?”
His fingers dug into her tired muscles, finding every sore spot and working it loose with careful precision. She’d been carrying tension for so long she’d forgotten what it felt like to let go of the pressure. But this was not the time.
“That’s... that’s not necessary,” she managed, her voice breathy and weak.
When she tried to sit up, he pressed a stilling hand to her shoulder. “Isn’t it?” His touch moved beneath her back, working muscles between her shoulder blades that were screaming for attention. “You’re tight. Unrested. Running from something. Living on adrenaline and fear. That’s no way to exist.”
“You don’t know anything about how I exist.”
“I know you smell like desperation,” he said quietly, the words sending electricity racing down her spine. “I know you sleep like someone who expects to be hunted. You flinch when anyone moves too quickly. And you lie to protect yourself.”
His accuracy was terrifying. How could a stranger read her so easily?
“I wish you’d stop,” she said, but the next muscle he pressed made her close her eyes and moan.