Page 80 of Twisted Kings

“It’s late. You should probably get some sleep.” It was nearly 3 AM.

She turned to me with a half-smile. “Don’t you need sleep too?”

“Me? No. I don’t sleep much these days.” A stomach ulcer from years of dealing with my father made sure of that.

“You look tired.” The look of concern in her eyes made me feel warm inside. I wasn’t used to having people worried about my needs; mostly it was me worrying about them. My mother. The guys. Those who mattered.

Did Thea matter?

As much as I wanted to maintain my boundaries, it had become apparent she mattered; more than mattered. Mattered enough that I’d blown up my entire life to be here, in Ireland. Consequences be damned.

I shrugged. “Got shit to sort.” Finding somewhere to live was a priority right now.

A realtor in the US was busy searching for a suitable property for us. She’d sent me the brochures for a few already, but so far, nothing jumped out at me. I wanted something remote, so it would be easier to stay off the grid, but not so remote that the nearest store was 100 kilometers away. Landon would lose his shit if he couldn’t pick up snacks on a whim.

“Ah OK, well, I’ll get out of your hair.” The blanket slipped to the floor as she swung her legs down. Now she was about to leave, I realized I very much wanted her to stay. As she leaned over to pick up the blanket, her long tee slid up her thighs to reveal a tempting stretch of olive skin.

“You don’t have to leave, Thea.”

“Um, you literally just told me to leave?” She huffed in exasperation.

I wrapped my fingers around her wrist. Thea was such a delicate creature. Her slight frame belied her strength. I pictured her spread across my sheets, legs parted, silken cords tied around her wrists, and swallowed a groan.

“I changed my mind.”

36

Thea

Cassian and I had skirted around each other since Christmas Eve. Since we’d talked, and more, his walls and mine had lowered. Neither of us fully trusted the other, but we could no longer deny the attraction between us.

Was it pure sexual chemistry? I wasn’t sure.

The guy was undeniably sexy with his caramel-colored hair and hazel eyes. Each time he strolled into the kitchen wearing a freshly laundered shirt and tailored pants, I wanted to mess him up, make him sweat, and loosen the chains around his self-control.

I suspected he craved control because he felt so powerless around his father. Micromanaging all aspects of his life, from school to the lives of his friends, prevented him from unraveling.

I’d taken a wrecking ball to his rigid existence and ruined everything. It was no wonder he distrusted me. I’d be suspicious too. Yet he’d come here anyway, and from the snippets I’d overheard, been forced to leave his vulnerable mother in the care of his not-so-loving father.

Cassian’s hand circled my wrist as his words sank in. He didn’t want me to leave.

“You want to talk some more?” In my head, I sounded confident. In reality, my voice came over as breathy and nervous. Why did Cassian make me nervous? I’d never felt that way around the others.

Not even Kyril, who scared everyone else with his deranged smiles and bloodthirsty threats.

“Not talk, no.” He grabbed me around the waist, lifting me effortlessly until I sat across his lap. From the hard bulge pressing against my butt, it was pretty obvious what he had in mind.

Excuses for why I needed to leave fluttered through my thoughts and puffed out of existence. Yes, it was late, and yes, I already had two guys sating my sexual needs. Three if we counted Milo and his voyeuristic habits.

Did I really need another?

His hands slid up my thighs, pushing the edge of my long tee higher until it bunched around my hips. My thong barely hid anything. Kyril had gifted me some new underwear. A collection of lace and silk in pretty pastel colors.

“Beautiful,” Cassian breathed, staring at the lilac silk triangle covering my mound. Was there a damp patch there? My cheeks flushed at the thought.

The room felt too hot. And not only because of the blazing fire at my back. For once, Cassian wasn’t wearing one of his trademark shirts. He’d swapped his shirt and pants for a fitted cotton jersey and gray joggers.

The cotton clung to his sculpted muscles, highlighting his broad shoulders and thick biceps. He lacked Kyril’s bulk, but it was obvious he worked out. I itched to explore the dips and hollows across his chest and abs, tracing each line and ridge of his body.

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