Page 101 of Manacled Hearts

“And do that again,” he says in a much darker, deeper tone.

Heat gathers between my legs, and now I crave to be that muffin he’s munching on, so he can spread me wide on this countertop and eat me out like he’s starving. But he shakes his head once and breaks the spell, focusing once again on that lucky muffin.

Waking up in this man’s penthouse has been a slight shock to the system. Not just because of the mind-blowing orgasm he gave me last night, or the even dirtier one this morning, but because of his home. I already imagined him in a sleek, luxurious place like this one, floor to ceiling windows everywhere, stainless steel appliances, white walls, and a black and deep gray color scheme. Whether it was based on preconceptions about the playboy with blonde curls and cheeky smile, or it felt like it fit his personality, I don’t know.

What I didn’t expect was the sheer contrast I was faced with. Against those clean, cold walls, antique paintings are slanted. Everything from oil to acrylic, landscapes to portraits, nudes to tragic battle scenes. And around them… there are books. More books than I can count sit in mismatched bookcases of assorted sizes and wood, and on the floor, in messy stacks sat against the walls and around those paintings. The contrast in styles is staggering. Like this penthouse is but a shell he merely exists in, but those books, those paintings, and the strange little trinkets spread between them, is where he truly lives.

Why doesn’t he have matching bookcases? Or neatly stacked books? Why does it look like he’s… stuck? Or not settled in yet?

I want to ask him about this discrepancy, but now isn’t the right time. There are other questions I have to ask him, and yes, his hands on me were a welcome distraction from what happened last night. He kept me from falling into a panic that wouldn’t have helped me. But now, I need to come back down to reality.

Looking around, I make sure Maya’s still out of earshot. She’s busy with some cartoons on TV, munching happily on her muffin.

“Did they track him down?” I ask Finnigan.

He watches me for a few moments, sighing with disappointment at the change in subject most likely, and shakes his head.

My shoulders slump. “How did he find me, Finnigan? And why? Why did he come for me?”

“I don’t know, Evie. What did he tell you last night?”

“How do you know he told me anything?” stupid question. Maddox probably told him.

“I was on the phone with Madds when it all happened. I… heard him.” Darkness passes over his eyes, and I can see there’s more than just anger there.

Is it unfair that I’m happy he’s so affected? That I can see he cares?

“Not much. That he likes my new hair, and… likes it when I fight him.” A deep shudder passes through me, turning my blood cold and my spine icy. “And that he’s been looking everywhere for me.”

That darkness deepens in Finnigan’s eyes, his brows narrowed in deep creases. He turned the second muffin into crumbles between his fingers.

“He won’t get you, Evelyn. I…” He pauses and shakes his head once. “He won’t.”

“He might.” There is no way he can guarantee my safety. He can’t have me by his side at all times.

“I will be with you. He won’t get through me. Plus, we are all on high alert now that we know they’re bringing the battle here. There will be more security, tightened rules, and eyes everywhere. He will not get to you.”

“Security will freak out the customers at the café. Though, I guess you could tell them to act like customers.” I think about the table closest to the entrance.

“You’re not going back to work. Not now that we know that asshole is after you, determined to get you back.”

“Bull—” I shut my mouth and peer around him to make sure Maya is still not listening. “Bullshit,” I snap back. “I need to work, Finnigan. Now you know what’s at stake for me. I will not risk my father’s comfort and health, and you made it pretty clear a while ago that you want me out of Queenscove. So I’m saving money for that, too.”

The man inhales so slow and deep, I half expect him to breathe out flames.

“That was then.” His answer is short, but heavy with meaning I don’t fully grasp.

“Nothing changed. Has it?”

Everything changed. For me at least. But I’m challenging him to face it too.

“I will help you.”

“You will do no such thing,” I bite back, disappointed at his lack of admission. “I refused your money once, Finnigan, I will do it again. All I need is to work.”

He crosses his arms against his expansive chest unfortunately covered by a light-blue T-shirt, and leans back in the bar stool, cocking an eyebrow. “Fine. Call Lulu and see what she says about you going for your next shift.”

I frown.

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