Page 45 of Scarlet Angel

“Did you ever?”

“When you’re forced into an abusive marriage at eighteen, you skip that stage.”

“Noted. Well, you might not have picked up on all the signs then, but my sister loves getting high. I’m not granting her free use of the heli to party with her friends.”

She said he blows everything out of proportion.She didn’t get high with me. But…the man and the envelope. Huh.

“Is she an addict?”

“She’d say no. I’d say yes.”

It makes more sense now. He’s controlling, yes, but with reason. Whether his fears are rational or not, keeping her under lock and key strikes me as misguided. “Does it work? Forcing her to stay home?”

He narrows his eyes, and I’m struck by the stormy blue. When he’s commanding and forthright, he’s gorgeous.

Keep the conversation flowing.“Is she following your path?”

“Hardly.”

“You never went through the partying phase?”

“When your parents die in a car bomb, leaving you with a toddler to raise and businesses to manage at the ripe age of fourteen, you tend to skip that phase.”

“Right.” I might’ve just met the first person who one-upped me on a shite life. “But you do party.” He shakes his head in disagreement. “You stay the night in London. You’ve a bar cart in multiple rooms in your house.”

“Scooch.”

“Pardon?” He’s standing beside the sofa, looking down at me, tall and divine like the Archangel Gabriel.

“Slide over.” I do as he commands, but I do so while eyeing all the space on the other end of the sofa.

“You’re tense. I’m going to work those shoulder muscles of yours.”

“I don’t need?—”

“Come now.” He sits behind me and tugs on my jumper. “Have you got something on underneath this?”

It’s been years since anyone touched my skin. This is not necessary.

The jumper pulls as he lifts it from the back, not waiting for my answer. There’s only a cotton tank beneath the itchy material, and the removal is welcome.

In the absence of the heavy outer layer, my skin chills. He lifts my hair off my neck and drapes it over one shoulder. The fine hairs on my arms rise in unison. The backs of his fingers skim slowly from my elbow to my shoulder, dragging warmth as they climb.

The heat from his touch soothes. I breathe out air I hadn’t realized I’d been holding. My neck bends forward, pulling the muscles along the spine and the base of my scalp.

I am allowing him to touch me.

The thought comes out of nowhere. If it didn’t feel so good, I’d push him away. But his touch feels divine. The pads of his fingers dig into sore muscles. He kneads, playing me pliant.

Be careful, my inner voice cautions.

A moan escapes in response to his thumb flattening against the corded shoulder muscle.

I went to therapy to face my fears. A determination born out of a stubborn refusal to let Vincent win, to let him take any more from me.

The past is behind me.

Strength and warmth cover my shoulder blades, and pressure kneads my spine, melting years of carefully constructed barriers.

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