Page 23 of Unbind

‘There, you see?’ Dr Dyson looks positively thrilled. ‘Now you can have a good night’s sleep before you go back to the real world.’

The unpalatable and very inconvenient truth is that I’m still completely wiped. Even after the drip, I feel like Bambi as I stand here. The mere thought of going outside and trying to flag down a cab in this weather feels like a herculean task, dammit. Adam clearly sees the moment I yield, because he smiles at me. It’s more of a smirk, and it reeks of victory, and it makes him look even more slappable than usual.

Now I do laugh, because this is ridiculous. Generous, yes, of course. But also more than a little psychotic. AdamWright has basically kidnapped me, and the good doctor on his payroll is enabling him.

But Dr Dyson has one thing right.

I do indeed feel like I left the real world behind me when I stepped over this threshold. And not in a good way.

‘Pyjamas.’ Adam coughs. ‘There are robes in the bathroom, but I didn’t have any women’s nightwear. Obviously.’

He points to the massive yellow Selfridges bag sitting on the huge bed in the centre of this astonishingly chic guest suite. ‘There should be underwear in the bag. I haven’t touched any of it, of course—my assistant put the order through and one of the maids unpacked. Let me see—leggings, etcetera. I think she got you some athleisure wear, basically. Trainers. The toiletries should all be in the bathroom. Shout if there’s anything else you need. Shall we say dinner in half an hour? I’ve asked the chef to keep it light and simple—we can just eat in the kitchen. I’ll get someone to run you a bath once we’ve eaten.’

Once I’ve got rid of him and closed the door firmly behind me before checking if it locks—it doesn’t—I lean against it and exhale.

This is insane.

Insane.

I’m stuck in the most achingly beautiful, palatial home I’ve ever seen with the human being who’s caused my family no end of pain and destruction. Oh, and with his fleet of staff, of course. And he’s bought me half of Selfridges, a gesture I shouldn’t accept but probably will, because pyjamas sound really fucking good right now.

Not to mention, this room is utterly perfect. If I’m notmistaken, the pale green wallpaper adorned with pale pink cherry blossoms is De Gournay, which means that every blossom is hand-painted and that each panel cost a couple of grand. The pink of the roman blinds matches the cherry blossom exactly, and the bed is a huge, white thing of wonder that looks like a marshmallow and probably feels like one.

I may be pissed off as hell to find myself here, with him, but that bed has a siren’s call, and it’sloud.

I push myself off the door and wander over to the pile of clothes resting on it. The tags have been cut off everything—probably his way of ensuring I couldn’t insist on any of it being sent back. But those delectable silk satin pyjamas in black and whitetoile de Jouywith black piping are Olivia von Halle pyjamas.

They’re five hundred quidminimum.I’ve ogled them through the window of her bijou Chelsea boutique before.

The casual wear is all Varley and Skims. It’s gorgeous, obviously.

And it’s all my size.

I risk a look in the bag. More Skims. Nude panties and a nude sports bra, both lace-trimmed but tasteful rather than porno.

Fuuuuuuck.

I sigh in defeat as I reach behind my neck for the top of my zip.

14

ADAM

Iwonder what she thinks of it. The house, I mean.

I wonder if she likes it.

It’s not that I want toimpressher, exactly. At least, I don’t think it is. I’m not the monster she thinks I am. I have no interest in rubbing her nose in how my fortunes have changed, in throwing my wealth in her face when I’m sure she thinks me undeserving.

But I want her tolikeit. It’s clear she has excellent taste, and I know, from the dossier I had one of my associates pull up for me today, that she has a stunning—if sub-scale—womenswear label. For whatever reason, I want my tasteful, elegant home to speak to her, to get through to her where I can’t. To inveigle its way into that artistic soul of hers.

If I’m honest with myself, I suspect I also want it to work its magic in somehow legitimising me in her eyes. She’ll never forgive me, I know that much, but perhaps her opinion of me will grow more nuanced. Perhaps she’ll entertain the sentiment that a man who’s all monster would never invest in a labour of love to produce something quite so beautiful?

But there’s little sign of capitulation in her huge brown eyes when she finds her way to the kitchen. Rather, I detect a wariness, a resentment, that she’s found herself forced to accept my help. My hospitality. She’s wearing dark grey leggings that mould to her tight little arse and a cropped, blush-coloured sweatshirt.Thank you, Clem.

She looks pale and exhausted and perfect.

I wonder if she’s ever been spanked by someone who knows what they’re doing.

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