Page 55 of Ruthless Keeper
Something in my chestignites.I know she’s drugged up to the gills and exhausted after this shitstorm of a day… but I think I might’ve just made the barest inch of progress.
I’ll fucking take it.
Our routine changes over the following week. I keep Scarlett in my bed, and though I reluctantly allow the demon-cat to stay in my apartment, I don’t let him in the bedroom. Some nights, Scarlett lets me hold her while we sleep; others, we get into heated arguments that end up with her trying to leave the bedroom and go back to her punishment room—which she still adamantly refers to as the cell. I don’t let her, but I do give her space when she’s angry, leaving her alone for a few hours.
I wash her carefully twice a day, take her to the medical wing every morning to get her arm checked, and studiously avoid interacting with Cain and Max—both of whom I want to kill. Cain more so than Max, but they’ve both earned a place on my shit-list.
The one interaction I have with Cain over the next seven days is when he tracks me down in the dining room, while I’m waiting for my breakfast order by the kitchen. He asks me what gave me the right to order Max to move forward with claiming a woman; I tell him that outranking Max is what gives me the right, and remind him thathe’sthe one who instated this bullshit, so now he’s going to need to watch it play out on multiple fronts. He tells me he’s expanding Max’s timeline to three months, threatens me to stay in my lane, and storms off.
I let him go. I have no interest in engaging with him unless absolutely necessary. Right now, any time I don’t spend working goes to Scarlett.
Progress with the woman in question is slow, but existent. She seems to have taken my words and my insistence that her giving us a chance is for the best to heart. I don’t think she’s made a decision—there’s still nearly constant resentment in her eyes—but she’s no longer fighting me every moment of every day, just for the sake of fighting me.
Glimpses of her personality start emerging. She’s sassy down to her core, without a doubt, but she’s also a nurturer at heart. Despite my fears, I let her convince me to take her back to the greenhouse, where I watch her tend to her plants with such care and affection it’s jarring. I see the same thing with her cat; the way she coos at him, cuddles him, and treats him like he’s an angel rather than a demonic furball.
My fears regarding Eric finding out Scarlett’s location, and that she’s here withme, loom closer—but nothing happens yet. I don’t ask Scarlett about Eric, either. I’m not sure what I’m waiting for; perhaps for her to be fully healed, perhaps for the right time… though there doesn’t seem to be a right time to bring up the fact that her brother is the Nighthawks’ greatest ally.
How do I tell her that her options are to fall in love with me or live out her life as a hostage?
If she doesn’t choose path A, I don’t know how to protect her. In the compound, I’m outnumbered. If Cain truly wanted her hurt, he’d have me pulled away from her by a group of operatives while he did what he wanted. I’d fight and claw and roar, I’d break my own bones to get back to her… but I’m not sure it would be enough.
I contemplate the idea of running away from here. Then, I very briefly entertain the idea of releasing Scarlett, of finding a way to smuggle her out here… but then I’d never see her again, and Eric would kill every single Nighthawk once he found out what happened. The only way to keep her and the organization safe is for her to fall for me… but I don’t know how to make that dream into a reality.
One afternoon, a day after her bandages come off, I find Scarlett sitting on my living room sofa, fiddling with a house plant with one hand while cradling the creature to her chest with the other, humming a quiet tune under her breath.
I’m struck by an unbelievable urge to knock her up. She has a maternal streak—that much is clear to see. She’s not on birth control. If I fucked her every day for the next couple of weeks and started slipping her prenatal vitamins with her nightly tea… it would be a possibility.
And, that way, I’d bind us together forever. I might even have a man on the inside, persuading her to fall for me.
Food for thought. My go-to person to run my insane ideas by is Max, and we’re not exactly on speaking terms. I’ve passed him in the halls or seen him at the gym a few times over the last week, but I don’t have any desire whatsoever to talk to him.
Scarlett startles when she notices me standing behind her, staring at her, and gazes at me for several beats without resentment or anger—merely curiosity.
“Can we go to the greenhouse?” she asks me. “I want to check on the seedlings.”
“Of course,” I say with a nod, staring at her arm for a beat. “How’s your arm?”
She shrugs carefully. “It’s fine. It still pulses and aches, but nothing overwhelming.” She sets down the plant—and the demon—and stands up, stretching her arms overhead. Her shirt rides up to expose a bit of midriff, and my gut clenches at the smooth, creamy expanse of skin. If I had less self-control, I’d push her back down to the couch, pin her legs apart, and eat her pussy until she was sobbing.
Instead, I settle for taking a few deep breaths before offering her my hand. She stares at it for nearly a minute before carefully taking it, letting me encase her tiny hand with my own.
Something in my chest takes flight. She’s letting me touch her—she’stouchingme. Cautiously, yes, but still. Giving her a few weeks of recuperation time has been more impactful than I could’ve hoped. Taking care of her, constantly reminding her of her value to me, have led to this moment.
I want to keep her hand in mine for the rest of my life.
“Do you want to drive over to the greenhouse or walk?” I ask her.
“Walk,” she replies quietly, almost hesitantly, even though I pose the same question every time we’re heading over there. “I like the fresh air…”
I squeeze her hand as I unlock the door. Instinctively, I cast a glance over my shoulder, lips thinning when I see Luci kneading the arm of the couch. I know that as soon as I leave, he’ll start clawing the fuck out of it.
“Your cat is a problem,” I tell Scarlett. “He’s feral.”
She smiles a little. “He’s not feral, he’s just…special.”
“And spoiled,” I mutter. “The chefs have to work harder to prepare his meals than ours.”
“The fact that you have chefs in the first place makesyouspoiled,” Scarlett comments as we step into the elevator.
