Page 112 of Born for Silk

As we approach the five-storey stone structure untouched by modern reformations, she slows her step, and I practically stop to accommodate her sweet hesitation.

Her violet eyes sweep upward, gaping at the sheer walls as she enters the dark shadow it casts with thick stone and sturdy piers. I have always liked the Romanesque architecture that characterises the majority of The Estate’s older buildings —fortress-like, domineering, defensive, a style for survival.

She removes her mask and sets it on the hallway table. From her shoulders, she slinks her hood, exposing her personalised Silk Girl dress with straight elegant lines down her lithe body. Across her upper chest, I can make out the faint rows of tiny bones beneath her skin while at her breast, the shadow of each nipple teases me. She is delicate and fine. I crack my neck from side to side, releasing some tension.

As we walk through the wing, she observes the space, the servers setting the table for three—her, Tuscany, and myself—the absurd amount of flowers, a floor-to-ceiling synthetic fire that spans the length of a soaring stone wall.

She stares at my personal space, and I…

I stare at her.

She has clawed her way into my mind, completely consuming it.

Aster… flower. A little flower that I plucked from the dirt and refuse to replant.

Nothing can be done now the heir is known, so the Silk Girl must stay by my side for her safety. That is all. Under this condition, she is most secure.

I do not trust her with any man or woman; I do not trust her with her Collective. And I will execute every being that interferes with… this. This thing between us which has no title nor law attached.

I will kill the creatures that have hurt her in the past and those who plot to do so in the future, those that glance her way with lust, bother her, force her to move, change her smile?—

I growl. The rampage of thoughts thunder within me, but then she catches my eye again…

“Wow.” She reaches her tiny hands out to feel the flame hearth, humming when it radiates but doesn’t burn.

I sigh, her sweet cadence giving me breath. Her awe forces me to smile, a rarity, and one I’ll only allow to exist for her, with her.

I realise that while I relish the crimson slashes of death on my calloused hands, the Redwind carving through the skin of Common—war—sharing quiet moments with her might be equally as pleasurable.

“Your wing, my king.” She spins to face me, and I try not to let her see the effect she has, flattening my smile. “It looks just like you. If you were a building.”

“What an odd thing to say.”

A coy smile bunches her cheeks. “I know.”

“I want to hear more.”

She blinks. “More of what?”

“Of your mind.”

I stride to her and cup her face, holding her tiny Common head in my hands, lifting her chin so her eyes peer through fluttering, black lashes to meet my gaze.

“You will stay here. You will not argue appropriate interactions or draw lines between us in the name of The Trade. Do you understand that everything is different now? Say yes, my king, and I will take you to my room.”

She swallows, and my cock stiffens.

“Say it.”

“What of my shots?”

“Your question implies you do not trust me to take care of you.” I frown, but answer, “Your Watcher will take you to the Medi-deck each first-light for your scan and vitamins.”

“Paisley,” she informs, as though I should use her name. Insolent little creature. “What of my Collective?”

This fucking girl.

Just say, ‘Yes, my king.’

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