Page 28 of The Lies of Bryn van Doren

Stefano squeezes her shoulder gently, and she sucks in a startled breath when her gaze locks with his once more. He frowns at her, and she can sense his confusion without him having to say a thing. He’s seen her in a towel before, and they both know it—but this is different. She’s never felt more vulnerable in front of him than she does now. She looks away again, certain she needs to get herself together.

I chose this, she reminds herself.

A rush of tears floods her eyes when she feels him slip her black satin robe up her back, draping it over her shoulders. He then wraps himself around her, pressing his cheek to hers. When she shifts her gaze toward the mirror across from them, she finds his eyes staring into hers. For a moment, neither of them says anything.

In a voice wrapped in more compassion and love than she deserves from him, Stefano asks, “Who are you, dove? You need a name.”

Her lips tremble, but she presses them together firmly, willing herself to be as brave as the man at her back. He doesn’t want to do this. She knows how much he wishes he could have changed her mind. Still, his hazel stare is giving her strength as he effortlessly expresses more support than she has the right to hope for.

Swallowing the knot in her throat, she offers him a slow nod. She’d been thinking about it all day—who she wants to be within the walls of Clandestine’s—and her mind is already made up.

“Bryn. Bryn van Doren.”

He quirks an eyebrow at her. In spite of her lingering fear, his expression forces a little laugh to bubble out of her. With a shrug, she says, “Seemed appropriate.”

“Can’t argue that. Come on,” he insists, pressing a soft kiss against her cheek. “It’s time.”

The mirror beforehim releases, and Khalohn presses his fingertips against it lightly. He slips through the narrow opening, allowing the door to close automatically as he heads toward the front desk. Tonight, Stefano doesn’t even turn to extract his room key from the cupboard on the wall but slides it across the smooth, golden surface from behind which he stands.

With his fingers still holding the key captive, he doesn’t utter his usual greeting. Khalohn studies him passively, not curious enough to question his change in demeanor, yet noting it just the same. When Stefano finally speaks, he reminds Khalohn, “She’s an extra five thousand.”

“I haven’t forgotten,” he says in reply, reaching for the skeleton key. He frowns slightly when Stefano doesn’t let go. He looks from the key to the gatekeeper, saying nothing as he waits for an explanation.

The man’s hesitation is quite uncharacteristic, and what could potentially be interpreted as a warning in his steady gaze does not go unnoticed. This excites him. As unnecessary as it is for Khalohn to be reminded of what awaits, their silent exchange does exactly that. Knowing he’s only a short distance from the woman he intends to ruin, he decides he will wait no longer. Not allowing Stefano a chance to express whatever words may be on the tip of his tongue, Khalohn yanks the key from his grasp and starts for the stairs.

He’s standing in front of his private suite less than a minute later, and he doesn’t dare linger in the hallway. He opens the door and steps inside, not bothering to look around as he shuts and locks the barrier behind him. He sets the key on the antique side table just beyond the entrance and then begins to shrug his way out of his jacket.

He knows he’s not alone, yet he doesn’t speak until his jacket is hung and his tie is loosened. As he begins to unfasten his cuffs and roll up his sleeves, he finally looks across the room. He sees her sitting at the vanity, and his heart beats harder inside of his chest. For a minute, he neither moves nor speaks. He has no intention of rushing his way through their night. Not one tempted by impatience, he allows himself to admire her from afar.

Her feet are tucked into a pair of shiny, black, platform stilettos—her long, slender legs crossed at her ankles. She’s wearing a pale pink bra covered in black lace, and he doesn’t have to look to know her panties match. Her long hair has been swept behind her shoulders, but even in the dim lighting of the room, he can tell it’s as thick as it is smooth. All that withstanding, it’s her hands clasped tightly in her lap which draw Khalohn’s attention.

She’s staring at her fingers, not glancing up at him once as the seconds tick by in silence.

She’s nervous, he observes to himself, allowing his arms to fall to his sides.

Instinct beckons him to tread softly, so he does. Slowly, he closes the distance between them, studying her every step of the way. Over theclickof his Tom Ford double monk-strap shoes, he can hear the sound of her breaths—growing shallow as he draws near. His chest swells, the air in his lungs mingling with something else—something more potent than oxygen.

Power.

It seeps into his bloodstream, coursing through his veins, consuming him like fire. It’s impossible to combat, and he can’t tell if he’s salivating in anticipation or in response to her scent. She smells not sweet or decadent; it’s not as obvious as all of that. He inhales deeply as he comes to a halt only a foot away from her, and he feels his dick as it begins to harden.

Suddenly aware he’s in danger of losing himself to his carnal nature, he reigns himself back in and continues with his signature routine. “You may call me Godrik,” he instructs.

A hint of a smirk twitches at the side of his mouth when he notes his voice is softer than normal—as if the moment demands it. It’s a heady feeling, the sense of power inside of him battling with his control, all the while succumbing to whatever it issheexudes in the air.

He watches as she squeezes her fingers anxiously before offering him a quick nod, her gaze still trained at her lap. He waits another second, wondering if she’ll look at him. When she doesn’t, he slips his index finger beneath her chin. Gently, he lifts her head, eliciting a soft gasp. His gaze locks in on her mouth, and his penis twitches at the sight of her painted lips—the top half thin and delicate, but the lower half perfectly plump. He doesn’t stop himself from grazing the pad of his thumb beneath the bottom edge. The feel of her quickened, hot breath against his skin beckons him to take a good look at her.

When their gazes align, the distinct, warm brown of her irises exposes an innocence within her as potent as her curiosity. What he sees in her dilated pupils isn’t fear, but something far more complex and almost mysterious. It is irrefutable he must have her. It isn’t that she’s the most beautiful woman he’s ever seen. While she is exceptionally fine, he cannot put her on such a pedestal. It’s too finite—toocliché.In truth, he doesn’t quite understand what it is he sees when he looks at her. All he’s sure of is he has no desire to look away. Even more, as he stares into her eyes—watching as she stares back in return—he recognizes his own desire for more than the satisfaction of one night.

It’s as obvious as a business transaction he’d be stupid not to take. The woman within his reach is not to be taken swiftly or selfishly. There’s something in her gaze, something which cools the fire of power heating him from the inside out; something that beckons him to explore her—to unearth the value found in her quiet, unflinching gaze.

With his finger still poised beneath her chin, and his thumb still pressed against the soft skin below her lips, he cannot brush away his doubt any more than he can ignore it—the doubt which begs the question:is this merely due to the fact that she’s yet to be touched?

He doesn’t know. He cannot know. All he can do is obey his calm, quiet intuition. As aroused as he is at the sight of her gorgeous body and her pretty face, it is not within his temperament to ignore the mysterious nature of his conscience. It has taken him to heights he never could have reached without such consideration, and he’s learned to trust the still small voice inside of him.

He’s inclined to believethiswoman is to be savored.

“And what shall I call you?”

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