Page 72 of Even Robots Die
It was too easy.
I hate it.
I picked Daniel because I know she likes him already and I thought it would make it easier for her to accept, but now that she agreed without even fighting me, I wonder if I should have picked a more seasoned warrior.
One who wouldn’t try to get in her bed, I think to myself.
Where did that thought come from?
I did get in her bed yesterday, even if it was for her own comfort. Could I have found another way to get her warm? Most likely, but would I change what I did? Never.
She’s mine.
Mine to taunt. Mine to piss off. Mine to make blush. Mine to take care. Mine to comfort.
Mine to stalk.
I should be ashamed of what I’m feeling—because yes, I can’t hide it from myself any longer, I feel now. I don’t think the full range of myemotions work, but satisfaction when I manage to make her red from fury and possessiveness, those I can feel for sure.
And that means some part of me is more than aware that I hate the fact I’m going to leave her safety between the hands of two other men—because yes I’m sending Charles too if only to make sure Daniel doesn’t try anything—even if I know they’re highly trained and efficient. One was trained before I even trained as a warrior and the other I trained myself.
That thread of possessiveness that just woke up doesn’t care about it, though. All it sees is that I won’t be the one by her side and I’m already dreading the minute she leaves me here.
Talk about pathetic.
42
Florentine
I’m not an idiot.
I know Paris is a mess right now and I would be a fool not to accept the protection Brice is giving me.
I’m stubborn, yes, but not to the point I would endanger myself or my sisters by being rash.
And maybe, just maybe, I like the idea that I need a bodyguard.
It makes me feel like my person needs to be guarded, that I bear value for someone.
Even if that someone is just an overbearing boss who thinks that I might disappear on him and that if I do, he will be stuck with a broken brain.
Brice is silent for an awfully long time, his green eyes peering at me like I’m some puzzle he needs to decipher.
“I’ll order a jet for you to go home,” he tells me, still not moving from the side of my bed.
“I need to change before I go,” I say when I still don’t see him getting up. “Now.”
But he’s still not leaving and I’m starting to lose patience.
“Go,” I say vehemently.
A satisfied smile stretches on his face and I wonder what he is preparing in his mind that would grant me the sight of this smile. I’m not sure I want to know.
I won't know anyway, because he finally stands and walks to the door.
Before he reaches it though, he turns to look at me.
“Be ready in ten minutes,” he says and then he opens the door.
