Page 27 of Unbind

It’s not even the niggling, unshakable feeling that in the past few hours, it’s he who’s behaved immaculately, generously, who’s hosted me graciously, and I who’ve been an ungrateful, churlish little shit. Especially given my parting shot—a shot I can’t help but suspect was way below the belt. A shot I regretted as soon as I saw the overt hurt on his face.

It’s worse than all that.

It’s this secret knowledge whose existence has been corroding my insides for the past few hours now:

If I didn’t know who Adam Wright was and what he was capable of in the past, if I hadn’t lived twenty years with the scars his despicable crime had left not just on my brother but my entire family, if he was a random, dashing hero whose presence of mind and extreme generosity and stunning home and overall concern for my welfare represented the extent of my knowledge of him, then let me tell you this:

I would be swooning right now.

Swooning.

Hard.

I mean, come on. It would be like I’d fallen into the pages of some excellentBeauty and the Beastreimagining, where the beast was Mr Darcy, and he was—some irritating high-handedness aside—utterly, unspeakably perfect.

No transformation necessary.

And I think that awareness makes this entire situation even less tenable than it should be. Being here is a double blow. Not only have I surrendered to the will of a man I know to be capable of horrifying violence, but I’ve exposedmyself to that alluring disguise of his, and boy, is it a good one.

He’s so handsome. So commanding. Everything he’s done this evening, from reacting to my hypo with actual tears of concern, to the insanely generous Selfridges haul, to Dr Dyson dropping everything, to his insistence that I stay here and rest, feels like a fairytale. Being on the receiving end of that while knowing I can’t trust it, I can’t enjoy it or lean into it, I can’t allow myself to be flattered or hopeful or to flirt gently with my handsome rescuer, hurts my heart a little.

The fantasy is so good, and it’s not real, and it’s a crying shame.

To milk myBeauty and the Beastanalogy dry, it’s as if he’s the anti-Beast. You know, instead of a wonderful man lurking beneath the gruff hostility and the handsome prince hidden under the hideous fur and teeth and claws, it’s quite the opposite.

The surface experience is the urbane, good-looking prince in his immaculate castle. At first glance, he’s the fairytale.

The animal that lies beneath, and the savagery of which it’s capable, is nowhere to be seen.

Unless you know where to look.

When I wake, it’s sudden. I lie for a second on my side, my arms still wrapped around the now-tepid hot water bottle, eyes closed and sleep-drugged brain trying to make sense of where I am.

Shit.I’m at Adam’s.

And that was a—snore?

My eyes fly open. The room is dim, but not dark. My door, which I most definitely shut before I went to bed, is ajar, and soft light from the hallway spills into the room, illuminating what is most definitely Adam on the bed next to me.

What the fuck is he doing here?

My entire body tenses, my fingers gripping the hot water bottle as my brain attempts to process what I see.

He’s sitting up against a pile of pillows, legs stretched out, curly head flung back in an uncomfortable-looking position, fast asleep and snoring gently with his fingers intertwined over his stomach. He’s lost the hoodie, kept the soft-looking white t-shirt, and gained a tent in his jogging bottoms the size of a bloody wedding marquee.

Oh my God.

Oh myGod.

I eye it in disbelief. It may be dim in here, but I’d have to be registered legally blind not to be able to make out that thing. It’s testing the limits of his jogging bottoms, the jersey stretched taut over his, um, tent pole. It’s—he’s—about two feet away from me.

Close enough that if I pulled my hand out from under the covers and stretched, I could touch it. I could slip my fingers beneath that straining waistband and wrap them around his length.

I could lean over, even, and lick a path through his crown, enjoying the music of his moans as he crossed over into consciousness with my mouth on him.

Nowthatwould be a way to wake him up, this delicious, interfering man who just can’t help himself. Who’s used to getting exactly what he wants, whether he uses his fists or his bank balance to do it.

I may despise him, but I can’t deny it’s been a while sinceI saw any form of dick, let alone one that impressive. And it seems my greedy little vagina doesn’t care about his morally corrupt soul or his black heart.

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