Total pages in book: 30
Estimated words: 28462 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 142(@200wpm)___ 114(@250wpm)___ 95(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 28462 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 142(@200wpm)___ 114(@250wpm)___ 95(@300wpm)
“You didn’t rinse your dishes,” he says, a flat and emotionless tone underlying the criticism.
“I’m sorry.” Trying not to show my shock at his busted-up face, I keep my attention on his chest. “I’ll do better next time.”
“See that you do.” As his gaze lands on the second plate, his expression softens. “I’ll join you after I clean up.” Turning on his heel, he disappears the way he came, and I set my fork down, suddenly too sick to eat more.
Someone did that to him. Was it Liam? My brother? The obvious answer is Sebastian, especially after the fury I witnessed in his mannerisms last night.
Miles returns minutes later, his blond hair combed back from showering. A citrus clean scent wafts off his naked body as he takes a seat at the head of the table. By now, the meager offering I cooked is cold, but he digs in without complaint, and that surprises me.
“Are you finished eating?” He gestures toward my abandoned plate of half-eaten eggs and toast.
I push the food away by a couple of inches. “I’m full.”
He nods, as if he understands, then returns to chewing and swallowing. But his mouth is a distraction, with that cut slashing through his bottom lip, and my curiosity gets the best of me.
“What happened to your face?”
“I went for a run last night to clear my head, and somehow, I ran nose-first into a pissed-off fist.”
Laughter bursts free, and I cover my mouth, mortified. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be.” The start of a smile pulls at his lips. “In the light of day, it’s easier to find humor in it.”
“Who did the pissed-off fist belong to?”
He raises a brow. “I’ll give you one guess.”
“Sebastian did this to you?”
“Can’t fault a man for defending a queen’s honor.” Apparently finished with breakfast, he leans back in his chair. “How about you and I call a truce?”
“A truce?”
“Yes. I’d rather not spend the whole month fighting with you. Believe it or not, I’d rather enjoy your company.”
“What will this truce involve?”
“If you agree to abide by the nudity rule while in the house, I won’t publicly humiliate you again.”
“That’s your idea of a truce?” I tilt my head, brow raised with incredulity. “What part of that benefits me?”
“You benefit from my mercy. If you obey me, I’ll reward you. I understand you have a daily routine in your studio you’d like to continue?”
I’m tempted to lie and claim my work is just a hobby—a pastime that isn’t my obsession and escape from the house of whatever man I’m obligated to for the month. But instinct warns he’d see through the lie.
“I’m in the middle of preparing for the Fashion Festival this fall.”
He nods, as if he’s already been debriefed on my daily activities. It would be ludicrous to think otherwise. For a group of men that spend so much time alone and isolated within their own houses, they have an uncanny ability to operate in sync.
“Then you should continue that work,” he says.
“Thank you.”
He dips his head in a display of graceful acknowledgement. “It’s still a privilege, my queen. An exchange, if you will.”
“An exchange for what?”
Letting several moments pass, he rubs his chin as he regards me. “For your cooperation.”
I gesture to my naked body. “In case you hadn’t noticed, I left the sheet in the bedroom.”
“I noticed, and your obedience is appreciated.”
“What more do you want?” As soon as the question leaves my mouth, I mentally kick myself for the implied invitation.
He smiles, interpreting my frustrated slip-up as I feared he would. “I want permission to touch you.”
I shift, crossing my legs even though he can’t see them from his position at the table. It takes everything in me not to palm my breasts. “I was under the impression you didn’t need my permission.”
“Intimacy is only pure and true when consent is given. We each have a duty here, Novalee. Yours is to obey. Mine rests on earning your consent.”
“What happens if I don’t give it?”
“Then you lose studio time.”
“How is that fair?”
“Life is messy, and rarely fair. Those are my terms.”
“You’re manipulating me, Mr. Sinclair, and resorting to blackmail. How is that consent?”
“You still have a choice. It’s up to you to decide.” He stands, picking up his plate and stacking mine on top. “Take the week to think about it. I expect an answer by my birthday.”
“When’s your birthday?”
“Six days from now.” He exits the kitchen, and my last vestige of hope for an uncomplicated month in the House of Virgo leaves with him.
8
“How are you holding up?” Elise sends me a glance full of curiosity as we meander down my favorite path that winds alongside the cliffs. There isn’t a cloud in sight—not even threatening on the horizon. Despite the mild weather, a breeze stirs the cotton skirt around my legs.