Page 72 of Renard's Deliverance

“Deserves it.”

“Really wasn’t his fault, though. It was mine. He didn’t know.”

He made a sound like he didn’t agree. “It’s true that you should have told him about your back, but he grabbed you like that out of frustration because he couldn’t control the scene. The man should have called for a pause before then. And that’s why he’s ‘the dick’.”

Right.

Made sense.

“Doesn’t mean you’re not in trouble for not telling him about your back. And for Topping from the bottom during that scene.”

“You’re really gonna punish me for that?”

“Well, it wasn’t my scene,” he said. “Of course, I could punish you for scening with someone else who wasn’t me.”

“Um, considering I thought we were just friends, no you can’t.”

“That is a point for consideration.”

She glared at him over her shoulder. “It’s the only point for consideration.”

“You try Topping with me, I’m gonna shut that shit down real quick,” he warned.

Something came over her. Different than those jabs of happiness he’d given her.

This was more like a blanket.

A warm blanket. One that made you feel at ease.

Which was weird when he’d basically just threatened her.

But if she had to take a guess, she figured it was because she knew that he meant every word. He’d follow through. And he wouldn’t leave her floundering . . . upset and out of control.

Because he would seize control.

“You’d keep me safe?” she whispered.

Shit. She didn’t mean to say that. Opal liked to play. And she liked to sass. What she didn’t usually do was trust. And to feel safe, you needed trust, so she wasn’t sure that she’d ever really had that.

Renard moved in close and opened the door. Grasping hold of her chin, he turned her face toward his. “I will keep you safe, Opal.”

She sucked in a breath and nodded. She believed him.

“Could you pass me the shower gel?” she asked, needing a break from the deep stuff.

“Yeah, baby. Sure you don’t need help?”

“Think I’ve got it.”

It was painful but she managed to wash her body. While keeping her hair out of the water. She didn’t have the energy to deal with that disaster right now.

13

He was a fucking saint.

There ought to be a prize for how much of a fucking saint he was. And there was no other way to describe what he was, because only a saint could have had a naked, wet Opal in the shower a few feet away and refrained from getting in there to touch her, taste her, to get on his knees to worship her.

It had been a definite test of his control.

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