Page 123 of Tempest

Rio mutters it from his seat, keeping his nose in his book and refusing to acknowledge me.

I’m not insulted because, in all fairness, I’d rather a deadly marksman not care that I’m in the room.

“How’s the thesis coming along?” Morgan tries for conversation. I wish he knew I’d rather slit my own throat than discuss the mundane with a bloodthirsty killer.

“Fine. Clover’s working on it now.”

“She has so much passion, that girl. I love setting it alight.”

Even Rio glances up at the thickness in Morgan’s tone.

So I didn’t imagine it, then. Morgan has an unnatural fondness for Clover. It’s both unsettling and a relief, knowing that my reluctant trek to the cottage won’t be fruitless.

Now my big worry is what Tempest will do with the information.

As if summoned by my thoughts, he reappears with two highball glasses in his hands.

“Drink?” he asks me.

“Uh. No.”

Unperturbed, he hands the second one off to Rio. “So. What did Clover do now?”

Amazing how this man can talk to me like I haven’t witnessed the worst of him or experienced all of him. It irks in a way it’s not supposed to, the way he regards me so blandly. I’ve been avoiding him for weeks—I would’ve expected more curiosity at my reappearance, or at least suspicion.

Not nothing.

“I’d rather talk to you in private,” I say.

Tempest sends a quick glance over to Rio and Morgan, then directs me to the other side of the fireplace, where a large, heavy wooden dinner table acts as the centerpiece.

“No, I mean, really private,” I add.

Tempest’s brows smooth as he processes my meaning. Morgan and Rio are still within hearing distance. He jerks his head to the staircase. “My bedroom, then.”

My insides recoil.

“Unless you prefer the basement?”

“Bedroom’s fine.” Stuffing my hands in my coat pockets, I lead the way up the stairs to the second-floor hallway.

“The door straight ahead,” he murmurs near the nape of my neck.

My baby hairs tickle my skin. Shivers cascade between my shoulders. He breathes out, and I’m engulfed by warm cloves.

Snap out of it. I force my feet forward until I come to the closed door. Tempest reaches around me and opens it, his arm brushing against mine.

There is at least an inch of down between his skin and mine, yet goose bumps spread across my forearm like he just stroked it with his tongue.

Sending a sharp look over my shoulder for him to knock it off, I walk in, flipping on the light switch next to the door.

I’m hot. Too hot, but I will not unzip my jacket.

His room is what I assumed it would be—bare except for the essentials and decorated in blacks and grays. A queen-sized bed with a black, quilted comforter is centered perfectly under the angled roof. My mind immediately questions how many women have felt the soft fabric between their legs after rubbing up against Tempest.

“I don’t bring any girls here if that’s what you’re wondering.”

My hands clench in my pockets. I hate that he knows what I’m thinking.

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