Page 62 of The Cartographer

“Fine, sir.”

“Good. Then let’s get you dressed and get some food.”

His brows crease in irritation, and his mouth drops open in protest. “But—”

“Patience, grasshopper. When have I ever not made something worth your while?”

He frowns but doesn’t argue, as he can’t. I’ve made sure of it. Good behavior and compliance are rewarded. Always. Consistency is key.

*

Half an hourlater finds us seated on the patio of one of my favorite brunch spots. If Matthew’s not around to make me some eggs Benedict or anything else I might desire, this place will do the trick, and thank goodness it’s within walking distance. Not that I don’t like to drive—and the Tesla’s a damn fine piece of machinery—but in the broad light of day, it makes Hart uncomfortable. I suspect it’s more the conspicuous display of wealth than being seen with me, but I haven’t asked.

I tell Allie to order anything he’d like and to drink some water. Bizarrely enough, enemas can cause dehydration, and I want him in top shape for the scenario I’ve been plotting. He orders an omelet and the waffle, and I try not to let the pleasure show on my face. He’s comfortable enough to get what he wants, even knowing I’m going to pick up the check. Good.

I get an omelet as well and a mimosa because day-drinking is one of the perks of brunch.

As we tuck into our food, he looks up at me several times, and even if I weren’t attentive as I am, I’d notice.

“Spit it out, Hart,” I instruct drily while my next bite of egg, cheese, onion, and spinach hangs in the air. “Stealth is not your specialty and you’ve got something to say.”

“When we were…” He looks around to see how close we are to the other diners, if any of them are paying attention, and leans in closer accordingly. “…in the shower.”

“Yes?”

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you naked before.”

“Of course you have.” I’d like to say I’ve been naked with Hart countless times, but I can count each precious instance on my fingers. Five.

“Not when it’s not dark.”

“True. Did you just want to make the observation or…?” Where’s he going with this? “Were you expecting me to have a tail? Some people actually believe I’m the devil, you know.”

He smirks and shoves another bite of waffle, dripping with butter and syrup, into his mouth before chewing thoughtfully. “No tail, but…”

My jaw flexes involuntarily.

“You’ve got a lot of scars.”

“As do you.”

“Yeah, but you know where mine come from.” My stomach clenches because, yes, I do. Street fights and battle wounds and those damn tats that could’ve killed him slowly. I’m well aware of the toll his life’s taken on his body. “What about yours?”

I take a leisurely sip of my mimosa—made the way I like it, with the orange juice for color—and formulate a reply that won’t invite any more questions. I don’t like to talk about this. When I’ve swallowed, I run my tongue along the inside of my teeth, grateful he can’t see the scars on the inside of my mouth.

“I wasn’t terribly popular as a child. Bullies can be vicious.” I don’t tell him it wasn’t me the bullies were after, but other kids, and I stepped into the line of fire because I’m bulletproof.

“You got all those from bullies?” He’s unconvinced and rightly so. Not everything was inflicted on purpose, and of those that were, it was more often curiosity than savagery.

“Mostly. A few otherwise.”

“How?” His dark brown eyes are boring into me. I’m not used to being on this end of an interrogation, and it makes me tetchy. Most people are satisfied with how much attention I pay to them and don’t pry after they figure out I’m happy to talk about them and their needs as much as they want. It’s not an opportunity afforded often, and people lick it up. Damn Hart for not being most people. To be completely fair, that’s something I like about him too. So I shrug and down the rest of my drink, gesturing to our waitress for another. My second and last.

“I started out as a bottom, and not all tops are as careful as I am.” Not a lie. Almost none of them are, though many are shades of acceptable. I wouldn’t knowingly hand off any of my charges to anyone who wasn’t. “As you might imagine, I’m absolutely no fun as a sub, so I didn’t last long.”

He grins at me and nudges my foot under the table, the small gesture of affection bumping at my heart far harder than the toe of his boot against my shoe. “You’d be terrible.”

My answers found satisfactory, I let my body retake conscious breaths. Of course inviting a bit of mockery would be the way to go. He likes to know I’m human. Some people find comfort in believing I’m supernatural, but not Hart. He likes me flesh and blood.

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