He grabs my nape, snarling in my face, “Lie. The fuck. Down.”
That shouldn’t be hot, right?
Gulping down desire, I slide onto the fur duvet. He turns to the nightstand, rummaging through a tray of massaging oils.
I immediately want to stab myself for being a raging bitch.
Brontë sniffs a few, waving the vials beneath his nose before uncapping a pair.
“That better not be chamomile and sandalwood.” I scrunch my nose the way I know he finds endearing. “They smell like dirty feet.”
“It’s balsam and lemongrass, my brother’s personal recipe for rough days.” His words are clipped and clinical, his movements rigid as he gestures to my naked body. “May I?”
I hate that he’s asking for permission to touch me. “Hai,you may.”
Thick oils splash onto my shoulders and down the curve of my spine. I shiver as he dribbles the cold liquid over my rear and down the soles of my feet. He coats his broad hands in a glistening sheen before leaning over me and kneading my shoulders.
I shudder and stifle a gravelly groan into my pillow. “Stars, this is almost better than sex.”
I hate that he doesn’t laugh.
“No wonder your first instinct is to bite.” His thumbs press deep, massaging in tight circles. “You’re knotted down to the bone.”
A string of senseless curses slips out as he works a particularly tender spot on each side of my neck. “I didn’t know muscles existed there to tangle.”
“They do, and they are. If I do anything that hurts, or you want me to stop, speak up.”
“Mhm.”
Brontë slowly works down my spine. My eyelids droop as I gaze into the flame upon a bedside candle and soak in each passing second of relaxation and relief.
“You’ve been holding out on me,mon roi.”
The heels of his palms dip into my tailbone, tight muscle loosening like melting clay. “As have you.”
Regret stings my eyes. “Brontë—”
“You spoke your truth, Poppy.” His hands skip down to my legs. “Let mespeak mine.”
His words are short, curt, pained at their sharp edges.
I shut my mouth and wait.
“I knew who you were when we first met, but I didn’t know what to expect when I called you to make a deal. It certainly wasn’t saving you from an assassin. To this day, I wonder what would’ve happened if I hadn’t called at all. If you’d crawled into bed that night only to wake to Vladimir Volkov crushing your windpipe.”
I scoff. “Your lack of faith in me is wounding.”
He smacks my ass sharp enough to make me yelp in surprise.
“The fuck wasthatfor?”
“Interrupting me.” There’s a dangerous glint in his hazel smolder as he slaps me again. “Thatwas for the sass.”
I open my mouth to spit a retort, but he raises his reddening palm in warning. I grit my teeth, my cheeks burning as raw want heats my blood. He smirks, rubbing the thick muscles with a level of tenderness that melts me into the bed.
“We’ve both done terrible things. That doesn’t mean our futures are set in stone. The difference between us is that I made my choice. You have one to make, too. It doesn’t have to be today or tomorrow. Take your time, figure out what it is you want and do it. Despite popular belief, magic exists. It’s called free will.”
Brontë leans down and presses a gentle kiss to my tattoo. I swallow a bout of tears as he finally cracks a genuine smile. It crinkles the corners of his eyes, stretches the scar over his right cheek. It’s so beautiful—he’sso beautiful, so seraphic. I’m completely spellbound.