Page 68 of A Forgotten Promise

“Shut up.” I carry her upstairs. “I’m not risking you fainting on the stairs and cracking your skull. Media would have a field day with that. I don’t need to be labeled an abuser.”

“That wouldn’t be that far-fetched.” She smirks.

“Again, shut up.” I scowl.

She weighs nothing, her hands are cold around my shoulders, her hip is protruding into my pecs, and yet… it’s like carrying precious cargo.

Like regardless of how much she hates me, or what stunts she orchestrates to piss me off, she’s my burden now, whether I like it or not.

I don’t like it, obviously, but there is a gentleman buried somewhere deep inside me, and that fucker decided to awaken. The worst timing ever.

The cavalier sentiment is about as welcome as the erection pressing against the zipper of my jeans. What the actual fuck is she doing to me?

It’s like her mere presence messes with my lifestyle, my values, and my general screw-you-all attitude. I fucking honed those all my life, and reinforced them after the old man surprised me from behind his grave. Only to lose them as soon as The Morrigan landed in my life.

Her defiance mingles with insecurity. Her sharp tongue is refreshing, but all the secrets and things she doesn’t say are even more intriguing. The walls she’s built around herself are thicker than mine.

And for the life of me, I don’t know why I want to break them. Like breaking them, breaking her, is the only interesting, invigorating thing in my life. Was I really that bored?

I kick the door to her room open and sit her down on the bed. “What do you sleep in?”

She frowns, smirking. “Really? I can get changed. I was a bit dizzy, not paralyzed.”

“I told you to behave if you want the wedding date. Lift your arms. I’ll help you get changed.” What am I doing?

“What if I sleep naked?”

Little tease. I grip her jaw, not too rough but firm enough to force her to look at me. “You keep running that pretty mouth of yours, and I will stuff it with my cock.”

She glares at me with heat and shock. Ha, so a bit of dirty talk does the trick to finally shut her up. Or did the innuendo—and again, what the fuck am I doing—fluster her?

Is Saar van den Linden a prude? Or is she inexperienced? Fuck, I need to get out of here before I investigate.

“Good night.” I drop her chin and practically run out of her room into mine.

I really should have given her a room that wasn’t in my immediate proximity. Is she really sleeping naked? What if she faints again and hits her head? Should I leave her alone?

I pull my sweater over my head, annoyed by everything and anything. I’m too tired to have a shower at this point, but I need to take care of the painful strain in my pants.

Dropping my jeans, I collapse into the armchair in the corner of my bedroom. My cock springs out heavy as soon as I lower the waistband of my briefs. I fist it and give it a tug.

Fuck, what are you doing to me, The Morrigan?

I close my eyes, fatigue and need fogging my brain. Briefly, I consider getting the lube from my nightstand, but I can’t be bothered. Spitting into my hand, I jerk off like I’m a teenager again.

Images of dark blue eyes—pleading, hiding, taunting, confronting—flash through my mind.

You know nothing about me.

You would love to win, wouldn’t you?

Because they saw me for the first time…

“Fuck,” I groan.

I practically smell the lavender. As I tug almost violently, my head covered with precum already, I swear I can even hear her gasp.

I lift my eyelids and… Fuck.

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