Page 35 of Seven Nights

“If it's not Bentley or money, then what? You said ‘no’ on blurry vision, but you were lying, love.”

I close my eyes. I am injured and tired, but I haven’t missed noticing how there is a new word Griffin is sprinkling into our conversation.

He has called me “love” more than once since finding me injured.

Why?

Is he just trying to be extra gentle with me because of the injury? I know he isn’t saying he loves me, but the endearment isn’t one that should be lightly tossed around. At least it is one I would never lightly toss around.

“Shhh, baby.” His hands move from my shoulders to gently cradle the sides of my head. His chest presses against my breasts for a second before his mouth makes contact with my lips. “Don't cry.”

I didn’t realize it, but tears are falling fat and fast down my cheeks.

Griffin deepens the kiss, his tongue lightly curling against my top lip with small forward trips to stroke against my palate and teeth. He kisses along the streak of tears that refuse to stop.

“Tell me what is wrong so I can fix it.”

What is wrong?

A tremor runs through me, dizzying me up in a way the bump on my head could never achieve. What is wrong with me that I am stupid enough to be falling in love with Griffin Montgomery. At least I think I am falling in love with him. I’ve never felt anything close to this with the few lovers I have had.

Of course, I’ve never been mugged, spirited away in a limo and taken to a sprawling mansion.

I am definitely overwhelmed—but probably in love, too.

Swallowing down the truth, I offer a weak smile.

“I’m just tired. I need to rest.”

His gaze narrows. That damn, perfectly shaped right brow of his lifts as the nostril below it flares.

“Still lying, love.”

I suck in a deep breath, smile a little more brightly and try again with a slight amendment.

“I'm tired, I need to rest.”

His brow climbs higher. “You said ‘just’ before.”

I mirror Griffin’s expression. Pain splinters and branches like lightning from the cut to my brow as I throw his own inconsistencies at him.

“And you said this wasn't your bedroom.”

His cheeks flush a deep pink. He closes his eyes and takes a few measured breaths before looking at me again.

“Your bottom is going to be very red because of this conversation, pet. And for breaking the contract by going outside. But not today.”

He brushes a kiss along my cheek then stands up.

“Harriet will return momentarily with some Tylenol and then again to check on you in two hours. This,” he says, taking a small clicker from his pocket, “will page her if you need anything before then. I sent Philip to buy a cane for when you need to use the bathroom, but you will not move around with it unless one of us is with you, and you will not lock any doors.”

I nod, relieved that I will only have to face Harriet two hours from now, and also relieved that Griffin doesn’t plan on doing something stupid—and utterly romantic and caring—like insisting on carting me back and forth to the bathroom.

Grabbing the iPad, he confirms my suspicion that it doubles as a control for the bedroom's cameras by bringing up the feed for the room. “I will of course be checking to make sure you are okay and are behaving yourself.”

I nod again.

A mischievous grin breaks across his handsome face, easing the tension that has plagued its surface since he found me bleeding on the trail. Reaching down, he strokes his fingertips across my stomach, over my mound and between my legs, re-staking his ownership of my body.

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