Page 119 of His Pretty Little Duet

Would she hold me if I needed it?

What do I know about her?

Only that she is still young. Powerful. Graceful. That much is true. She's in her thirties, having had me young and could easily pass for my older sister, who could easily be in her twenties. Stunning too.

Stunninglike a white and grey marble sculpture you admire but never have the courage to embrace.

I continue to stare, and she smiles, her red lips a slight curve on her face. She pulls her wrist free from my grasp, saying, "I'm very proud of you."

Then she leaves the room.

Leaves my hand hovering in the air, still wanting her close. To clean the blood from her fingers. To have her clean the blood from me… For a moment, for just one fucking moment—I cast my eyes to the ceramic vanity covered in my blood—I think I really needed to be vulnerable with someone.

Fawn

A friendof mine told me that good things come in threes.

Him: number one.

Him…

Clay Butcher—the man sitting at his desk across from our bed with the glacier look of importance, of power portrayed through pursed lips and two pinched dark brows. Blue eyes focus on his laptop screen. His chair is an iron sword and shield away from a throne.

Through the large full-length window, the morning sun sets a soft glow to the room, accenting the curves of muscles across his bare torso with light and shadows.

I'm glad he is still here.

This man is breathtaking. I've always believed in auras; my mum swore she could see colours around living things.

I wonder what colour she would've seen around Clay Butcher.

One thing is for sure, whatever the hue, it exists as thick, tangible supremacy that even a blind person can appreciate. So, when he is gone—at work or the warehouse—his absence makes my entire world cavernous.

My entire world… Well, that's him… This house. The maids. Jasmine. The pillow stacks. The new sofa lounge by the poolside and the old wrought-iron one that now sits as an ornament in the garden. As it should be.

My whole life…this.

I'm not allowed to leave it or expand it. Not until he finds my dad and…kills him. Of this, I'm sure. Death is what awaits the man I share blood with, the one I don't know.

I tuck my hands beneath my cheek and shuffle my legs along the sheets, settling in further. Unable to tear my gaze away from Clay Butcher's level of perfection, I simply watch him work. And while he hasn’t acknowledged I'm awake, he doesn’t have to.

He knows.

He always knows.

"Come here," he says to the screen, and my lips quirk into a little smile. I roll my shoulders, and the silk of his bedding slides down my naked body as I stand.

I’m always naked in this room.

That’s how he likes me.

My bare feet pad over the floor towards him, and just when I'm within arm's length, he shuts his laptop, slides it to the side, and leans back slightly, making space on the desk in front of him.

An action that speaks volumes.

Smiling softly at his silent order, I perch in front of him on the polished wood with my feet swinging, my knees pressed together, my hair dangling in long straight ribbons down each breast. He considers me with a knowing gleam that forces both nerves and excitement to the tips of my toes.

I wiggle them. His gaze darts down to watch my toes and then back up to settle on my face.

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