Total pages in book: 109
Estimated words: 103878 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 519(@200wpm)___ 416(@250wpm)___ 346(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 103878 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 519(@200wpm)___ 416(@250wpm)___ 346(@300wpm)
“Where are you going?”
“Inside.” His eyes flick to my leg. “You wanted fresh air without me hovering. Don't overdo it, lass. You need to rest that ankle.”
“I didn't mean—I don't—” I stop myself. “Just don't. Don't leave.”
Something shifts in his expression. How can he look soft and hard all at once?
“I'm not leaving you, Bianca. Not ever.” He says it like a vow, and there's a glimpse of something like victory in his eyes. “I'll be inside if you need me.”
He disappears into the cabin. I'm alone on the porch with the forest and my spiraling thoughts.
This is wrong, I tell myself. He kidnapped you. He's obsessed with you. This isn't romance. It's a crime.
But my traitorous heart doesn't seem to care about the difference anymore.
I stay outside until the sun shifts, until my skin prickles with goose bumps and my ankle throbs dully. When I finally go back inside, I find Ashland in the living room, reading.
It’s not just any book, of course. Le Morte d'Arthur. The one I've read so many times that the spine is cracked and the pages are soft.
“You read Arthurian legend?” I can't keep the surprise from my voice.
He looks up, and there's something almost shy in his expression. He shrugs. “Started to. I figured if you love it so much, there's gotta be something to this goddamn book.”
I bite back a smile. “What do you think?” I ask as I hobble over to the couch and sit, elevating my foot. I try to hide my wince, but he notices.
“I think Arthur's a goddamn fool for trusting Lancelot around his fucking wife.” He closes the book, keeping his place with one scarred finger. “But I guess I understand why he did. Sometimes, when you love someone, you can't see what's right in front of you.”
“Guinevere loved them both,” I say quietly, settling onto the other end of the couch. “That was the tragedy. She was torn between duty and desire.”
Why has it never hit me so hard as it does right now?
His eyes darken. “Which one won?”
“Neither,” I whisper. “Everyone lost in the end.”
“Cheerful stuff,” he quips, but there's a ghost of a smile on his lips.
“Maybe it's not about happy endings,” I say. I'm glad we have some kind of excuse to talk like this. I can talk about books. I can talk about Guinevere. I can talk about Arthur and Lancelot. But I can't talk about… me. Maybe that’s partly why I love books so much.
“It's about honor and sacrifice and impossible choices,” I finish. I tuck my feet under me and wince.
“Don't do that,” he says immediately. “Put it out in front of you.”
I nod, feeling silly and foolish. I didn't mean to. It was just instinct—I tuck my feet under me when I'm having a difficult conversation.
“Maybe these are stories about people trying to be good in a world that won't let them.”
He smirks. “Well,” he mutters. “You didn't name your cat Arthur, did you?”
I feel heat creep up my neck and shrug. “Lancelot's a better name.”
He chuckles and sets the book aside. “Give me your ankle.”
“It's fine.”
His voice is stern. “Ankle, Bianca.” My heart thumps.
I give him my leg, and he shifts closer, cradling it in his large, rough hands. This time, his touch is gentle, almost clinical. But still, heat spreads from every point of contact.
“Still tender,” he murmurs, his thumb pressing carefully against the bruised skin. “You should take better care. No standing on it. No tucking it under you. Keep it elevated.” He looks up at me through those gunmetal-gray eyes. “You did a good number on yourself.”
I huff out a breath.
“I suppose this is good,” he says, gently placing it on the ottoman. “At least you'll have a reason not to run for a little while. Maybe in the next couple of days, you'll see I'm not the monster you think I am.”
And I start to wonder… yeah. Yeah, this could work to my advantage.
I should probably put some distance between us before this—whatever this is—goes too far. But I can't seem to move. Can't seem to do anything but stare at this brutal, damaged man who looks at me like I'm the only light in his darkness.
His thumb traces smooth circles on my skin, just above my ankle.
“You scare me,” I whisper.
He drops my leg like I've burned him. “Not really, do I?”
“You do. Of course you do.” But it's terrifying because maybe he doesn't. Not in the way I should be scared. Not in a way that makes me want to run.
His eyes darken, and his hand slides up my leg to my thigh. “Why, lass? Tell me.”
I’m confused, angry, desperate, and hopelessly aroused.
But I don't say that out loud.
“I don't know.”
“Liar. You're a little liar.” He pulls me closer until I'm practically in his lap. “I should spank you again for lying to me.”