Page 7 of Claimed By the Mobster
I’ve barely nodded before he has an arm beneath my shoulders and is helping me sit up, a glass at my lips.
His face is so close. Far nearer than we’ve ever been even in the last six months.
“Drink,” he whispers, not taking his eyes from my face. I’m glued to him too. Or I think I am. As cool water slips down my throat, I give in to the need to stare at him.
His arm is a warm solid band behind my shoulders and he’s cupping the back of my head with strong fingers.
Must be a dream. Being held by Mr Crosse? Being able to look at him. I can finally examine his eyes the way I’ve always wanted to. Well, if I could keep my focus. It keeps blurring, and my eyes won’t stay open. I’ve looked at him, covertly. But never had him look at me straight on. Not since the first night I sought refuge with him.
“Enough?” he asks gently, taking the glass away.
“So handsome,” I slur out the only thought in my head.
This isn’t real, because he doesn’t respond to my statement. Not with horror nor even a hint of a smile. Nothing. Just keeps looking at me, his chest rising and falling quicker than usual.
I bring my hand up to his face—nope, that’s his shoulder—ahhh. Yes. Slight bristles.
“Want to look ... at you.” But my eyes are closing again without my volition. I have to keep them open. Really like this dream. Don’t want it to end.
I want…
I’m eased back onto… a bed? It’s so comfortable, and yet it’s not familiar. Not the bed I use when I stay with Mr Crosse. I try to look around but my head is so heavy, my neck stiff, I can only see Benedict. His grey eyes.
“Please… Kiss…” I can’t get the next word out as my vision swims.
“Sleep.”
The last thing I feel before I slip back into unconsciousness is warm lips and rough stubble on my forehead.
* * *
“Fix her!”
I’m too groggy to open my eyes.
“...Have to be patient.” A soothing voice.
“...Not a patient man, Doctor…” That’s… That voice, it’s brusque and commanding. Grumpy. Home. He’s the sound of home. Then a name. It’s Benedict Crosse, snarling. “Make her well, or suffer the consequences.”
I try to move, and say I’m fine. He doesn’t have to worry about me. I’ll be out of here in a moment. It emerges as a whimper.
Footsteps approach and I prise open my eyes to see grey wool-clad legs before my vision swims and spirals.
“Anwyn.”
My hand is held, strong fingers clasping mine and a thumb brushing over my knuckles.
There’s a sound like a wounded animal. Then black.
* * *
This time when I wake, I merely feel like I’ve been beaten up. My head aches a bit, but although I wince as I open my eyes the nausea and fog have cleared.
The room is painted in charcoal grey shadows and peach sunlight. I look around cautiously.
I’m in a bedroom. It’s old-world luxury. Deep green and black patterns and brocades, paintings with wide gold frames on the wall, and the scent of a forest and moving water. This one room is the size of the entire ground floor of the student house I live in.
Where am I?
