Page 8 of Twelve Nights In The Prince's Bed

He groaned, the magnitude of that inescapable. The kiss had been bad enough! But this bound them in a way, and always would. What the hell had he done? Panic was a surging tide, threatening to drown him. Adrastos wanted to shout into the room, to issue a denial, to take it all back. He wouldneverbe bound to anyone, especially not Poppy. It was the one small beacon of independence he held. His life, his right to date whom he wanted, his sexual freedom. Having sex with a virgin carried more meaning than the simple act of two people coming together—and knowing he’d been Poppy’s first? What had he done? What had she let him do?

‘Adrastos?’ Her voice was soft and sweet, tremulous. ‘Look at me.’

He closed his eyes hard, so little cracks formed at the edges of his face, then turned, his expression now stiff, his face bearing a mask of cool indifference even when inside he was a torrent of feelings. ‘You were a virgin.’

He didn’t need her to confirm it, but it felt somehow important to speak those words aloud.

Her eyes darted around the room and then she nodded, once. Her cheeks were stained pink.

‘You’re twenty-four.’

‘I know that,’ she whispered, not meeting his eyes.

He tried to control his anger. After all, it wasn’t directed at Poppy—not all of it, anyway. Virgin or not, he shouldn’t have brought her here, shouldn’t have agreed to kiss her and ‘not stop’.

‘Why did you proposition me?’ he demanded, remembering belatedly that she’d instigated this. He’d had no idea of her inexperience, but Poppy had known. And she’d goaded him into being her first!

‘I—just—’

‘You just what?’ His words cracked around the room, frustration evident in the resounding bite of his syllables.

‘I just wanted—’

‘Sex? To lose your virginity?’ he accused, jacking his thumb towards the wall behind her. ‘Well, there are about two dozen men out there who would have happily obliged. Why the hell did you choose me?’

‘It wasn’t—I just wanted—’

The night Nicholas had died, Adrastos had felt terrifyingly out of control, and he’d hated it. His world had crumbled and Adrastos hadn’t held any power to stop that, to change it. Afterwards, he’d done everything he could to retain a grip on his life. He never let himself feel more than he wanted, never lost himself in sentiment or emotion, except for two times in his adult life: in the rose garden on Poppy’s twenty-first birthday, and now. Even with his family, he’d pulled back just enough to protect himself from any more loss.

He’d worked hard to call the shots in every aspect of his life. But he hadn’t been in control from the moment Poppy had approached him at the party, and that sense of powerlessness was bringing back subconscious echoes of how he’d felt when Nicholas had died, making him react stronger, harder, out of a fierce need for self-preservation.

‘It’s not a big deal, is it?’

The soft question had his head pounding as if it might explode. He jerked away from her, needing space to cool down, reaching for his boxer shorts and dragging them on his body. Her flimsy underwear lay at his feet and he scooped the thong up swiftly and tossed it in the direction of the bed.

‘Get dressed.’ The words were curt, and he had his back turned to her—more self-preservation—so didn’t see the way her face paled and lower lip trembled.

‘Why won’t you look at me?’ she whispered, a moment later, and so he had to steel himself to do exactly that, turning as he roughly buttoned up his shirt, then wishing he hadn’t when the sight of her made Adrastos feel as though he’d been punched right in the middle of his chest.

She was dressed in her bra and pants, but her hair was tumbled and loose and her lips bruised from his kisses, her body so beautiful and fragile. His damned arousal jerked and he wanted to run. To literally run a marathon, to get this frantic, desperate energy out of his system.

He tried to regain control, to be reasonable, to take the edge off his anger, but he felt powerless and used. Yes, he felt used. She’d wanted to lose her virginity, she’d chosen him, to hell with the consequences. To hell with how that could potentially have affected his family.

‘This was a mistake,’ he said firmly. ‘You are like a daughter to my parents, a sister to my sister.’

She tilted her chin with unexpected defiance. ‘But not a sister to you.’

He felt nauseous. ‘God, Poppy. Youshouldbe like a sister to me. After your parents died, my parents all but adopted you. You are their goddaughter. They raised you since you were fourteen.’

She closed her eyes. ‘Thank you for the biographical information but I’m aware of all that already.’

He ground his teeth. ‘This isn’t the time for sarcasm.’

‘I’m sorry, I’ve never done this before. How should I be acting?’

‘Apologetically,’ he muttered.

‘You want me to apologise?’

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