Page 52 of Guarded King

Frowning, I turn toward her, my movements cautious so I don’t bump her. “Are you scared?”

The slight hesitation before she speaks is telling. “No. Of course not.”

That hint of fear in her voice has my stomach twisting.

“Chloe.”

She doesn’t respond. Shit. What’s keeping that far too distracting mouth of hers quiet? “Tell me what’s wrong, sweetheart.” The endearment falls from my lips unbidden.

She shuffles, the sounds far too loud in the silence. “When I was little, I got stuck in an old wardrobe, and it took Dad a while to find me. It’s stupid to be scared, I know, and typically, confined spaces aren’t too bad. It’s just when it’s dark as well…”

I reach toward where her voice is coming from and find her arm. “Come here,” I say gruffly, tugging her toward me.

She comes with no resistance, and after only a moment’s hesitation, I pull her into my arms and hold her trembling body tight. “It’s okay. They’ll have us out soon.” It’s probably unwise to hold her like this, but I’m beyond caring right now. Particularly when she tentatively slides her own arms under my jacket and loops them around my waist, then rests her head against my chest.

“Focus on my heartbeat,” I tell her. “Listen to it counting down until the lights go back on and we start moving again, okay?”

I smooth my hand up and down the curve of her back and inhale the sweet smell of her shampoo, all the while wondering who the hell has taken over my body. I’m not the comforting type. It takes more willpower than I’d like to admit to concentrate on her slowing breaths, on the way she relaxes into me, instead of the way her body feels against mine.

“How did you manage to get trapped inside a wardrobe?” I keep my tone light, hoping that getting her talking will help.

She exhales, her breath warming my skin through my shirt. “Dad was in his studio painting, and I was bored. So I asked Mom if she’d play hide and seek with me. She didn’t want to, but I pestered her until she agreed. I thought hiding in the wardrobe was a great idea, but when Mom didn’t come find me, I realized the door had closed all the way behind me, and I couldn’t open it from the inside. I panicked.”

“Why didn’t your mom find you?”

Her small laugh is mirthless. “She wasn’t even looking. She went outside so she could call a friend without being bothered by me. I guess she figured I’d eventually get sick of hiding and come out on my own. When Dad finally came out of his studio, he heard me screaming and found me right away.”

With anger swelling inside me, I tighten my arms around her. “How old were you?”

“Eight. Dad was so angry at Mom, but she laughed it off. Told me to find a better hiding place next time. Not that there was a next time. I don’t think I ever played hide and seek again.”

“I’m sorry,” I tell her, still smoothing my hand over her back. Apparently, neither of our moms were particularly nurturing.

“It’s okay.” She lets out another soft sigh, her hands pressing into me, almost as if she’s subconsciously trying to draw me closer.

And fuck if I don’t want to get closer.

Here in the blanket of darkness, it’s just us. Hidden away from the world, it’s far too easy to forget why I shouldn’t be holding her, why there can never be more than this.

And it’s far too easy to forget what kind of man wanting more makes me.

After all, what’s another blurred line in the long list I promised myself I’d never cross?

Despite my better judgment, I slide my hand up underneath her hair and curve it around the back of her neck, relishing the smooth, warm skin beneath my palm.

A shiver runs through her, but she doesn’t stiffen, and she doesn’t attempt to pull away.

If anything, she presses closer.

I inhale, breathe in honey and vanilla, lose my mind a little.

When I tighten my grip, she lets out the tiniest whimper.

“Roman,” she whispers. It’s not a question. It’s not a protest. The two syllables are pure need.

It’s wrong. I’m crossing far too many lines. Even so, the urge to do what I’ve wanted to do since the moment I saw her is too strong. So I wrap the thick length of her hair around my fist and tug her head back. I can’t see her, but I can feel her, I can hear her. Her body is pliant against mine, her breaths coming in shallow pants. It’s easy to picture her soft lips parted, waiting for me. I’ve done it far too many times already.

The dark shields us from the reality of what’s happening between us.

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