Page 111 of Midnight Conquest

Broderick crossed the room, his long legs devouring the distance, his larger frame casting a dark shadow across her path. He blocked her escape, a living wall between her and freedom. She froze, her hand still gripping the nursery door handle as if it were her only lifeline.

“Blossom,” he said, his voice softer now but no less commanding. “What’s going on?”

She couldn’t look at him. Refused to. If she met his gaze, he’d see too much. He’d see everything.

Her knuckles whitened on the handle, her breath shallow and quick, but his hand rose, calloused fingertips brushing beneath her chin. He tilted her face toward him with gentle insistence.

She kept her eyes downcast, but she could feel the weight of his gaze, heavy and unrelenting. The harshness in his expression softened, shadows chased away by something deeper—concern, perhaps, or something far more dangerous.

Her chest tightened painfully, as if a band had been cinched around her ribs, and she could barely draw breath beneath its crushing hold.

His jaw clenched, as if he were fighting something inside himself, and before she could react, he pulled her into his arms.

The warmth of his chest, the steady strength of his heartbeat against her ear, and the soothing stroke of his palm up and down her spine unraveled her completely. She broke, sobbing against him as if the floodgates had burst, clinging to him with desperate hands. He held her tighter, cradling her head against his chest.

Bending forward, Broderick swept her legs out from under her, and sat on the bed, settling her in his lap. She buried her face in his neck, where she felt the faint scratch of his beard against her temple. The subtle scent of leather and earth clungto him, grounding her in a way she hadn’t expected.

His hands stroked her hair, his voice a low murmur against her ear. “What happened, Blossom?”

The tenderness in his words, the warmth of his touch—it was all too much. She wanted to believe he cared. Wanted to believe he was different. But the shame of her vulnerability wrapped around her like iron chains, and she shoved away from him, sliding off his lap and onto her feet.

“Why does it matter to you?” she snapped, her voice raw with emotion. “Why are you pretending to care? You’re just like every other man who’s only interested in one thing—pleasing thatoffending memberbetween your damn legs!”

Broderick blinked, then smirked, leaning back on the bed with infuriating ease. He planted his hands on the mattress behind him, propping himself up, his legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles. “I see.” he drawled, his tone laced with amusement.

Her hands balled into fists, and she began to pace, her frustration spilling out in a flurry of words. “You’re all the same. Every last one of you. My father, my husband, every man I’ve ever known. Including you.”

His eyebrows shot toward his hairline, and for a moment, he looked genuinely taken aback. But then his expression shifted, his smirk returning as if it were permanently etched onto his face. “I beg tae differ on that point,” he said smoothly. “I know plenty o’ men far worse than me.”

She snorted. “I doubt that.”

His grin faltered, replaced by a slight frown. “Well, tha’ was a whack in the bullocks,” he muttered under his breath. He sat up straighter, his tone more serious now. “I can think of one man right now who fits that description—yer late husband.”

Her breath caught, and her pacing stilled. She realized the cruelty of her words. He was right. Ian had been a monster. A cruel, heartless man who had taken far more than he’d ever given. Broderick was nothing like Ian. She nodded stiffly, unable to argue.

Broderick pushed off the bed, towering over her as he closed the distance between them. “I’m not like other men,” he said, his voice deep and firm. “And I’ll prove it tae ye.”

She scoffed, crossing her arms over her chest. “Sorry, but last night proved my previous statement. You have only been interested in getting me into bed.”

“That doesnae mean ye cannae trust me.” With an arched brow, he turned and strode toward her wardrobe. He rifled inside for a moment before pulling out one of her sashes. The boldness of his actions left her speechless, and she stared as he stretched the sash between his hands.

“That is one thing yecando,” he said, his voice softer now.

“I trust no man.” She jutted her chin forward “That’s why I wanted to live without one.”

He moved behind her, his footsteps calculated, and she stiffened as he lifted the sash over her head. The fabric came toward her face. She grabbed his wrists, her voice trembling. “What are you doing?”

“Opening yer eyes, Blossom.” His lips brushed against the shell of her ear, and his voice dropped to a whisper. “Trust me.”

Chapter Twenty-One

Davina’s heart pounded as the blindfold hovered in front of her face. He didn’t try to force her hands, waiting instead for her permission. The silence stretched between them, heavy and charged, until finally, she dropped her hands and gave a small nod.

He secured the sash snugly over her eyes, and the world went dark.

“Can ye see anything?” he asked, his voice close to her ear, breath warm against her skin.

“Nay,” she whispered, her own breath catching.

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