Page 51 of Hoarded By the Dragon

“Kalos.”

He stands in the doorway, the cut of his expensive suit making my mouth water and heat cascade through me at an embarrassing rate. For all the time we spend together, his presence is still a weight, one that pulls like tugging heartstrings.

His eyes shift over me, as if hungry for the sight of me. Has this been as torturous for him as it has for me?

“Business called me away this morning and I wanted to make sure you felt okay,” he says.

Goose bumps rise on my skin, and he must see them because he strides toward me.

“It’s fine,” I say. “I’m fine.”

He surrounds me and pulls my back against his front. I sigh. The embrace eases my horniness and hectic thoughts. The contact with clothes on is different, but the heat of him is still a comfort.

“Hey stranger,” I say, putting my paintbrush down and removing the gloves on my hands so I can rest them on his arm.

Kalos takes in the room. “You seem well set up here.”

I’m working over a table that I put a protective covering on. I’ve stored most of my items in organizational drawers under the table to keep the bottles of solvent and rolls of cotton wool out of the way. Two easels stand side by side. One empty, while the other is holding an 1800s landscape with a drying layer of varnish that awaits retouching.

He’s never visited me during the day. Whenever we’ve made contact it’s been because I’ll stop by his study to let him know that I’m leaving the house with Ben.

He never asked to be kept up to date with my location, but every time I tell him, there’s relief in his gaze. He considers me his to protect. I can make that job easy for him.

“Yeah, this room is pretty great. All this natural light is gorgeous,” I say.

I sense Kalos look down past my shoulder, and his body stiffens. “That’s an… interesting painting.”

I snort, and my cheeks heat. “It has emotional significance. It’s been in my client’s family for generations, and the aging varnish obscured the portrait.”

“And they wanted the portrait… not obscured?”

I laugh. The portrait is kind of hideous. The artist either wasn’t very skilled, or the original matriarch of the family really did have terrifyingly large, glaring eyes. I wonder if the painting had been done to keep future generations in line with the threatening gaze.

“Are you scared of her?” I ask.

Kalos shudders. “Wouldn’t you be?”

“They’re only trying to preserve their history.”

“Perhaps some history should be left buried,” he mutters, and I grin.

“You’re terrible.”

He gives me a look. “That’s terrible.”

“You’re just lucky that it isn’t actually cursed and only looks that way. Sometimes ancestors leave nasty surprises for their descendants.” Which is partially why I’m glad to leave my origins a mystery. All this contact with old witch families really doesn’t leave anything to be admired. I much prefer the tight-knit life I’m cultivating now.

“It must pay well for you to risk such nightmares,” Kalos teases.

I hum in response but can sense his eyes narrowing.

“Care to take a break, Rina?”

I yelp when he picks me up and takes us to an armchair positioned to look out the windows. I should stop letting him manhandle me. I should put more boundaries in place so the warmth in my chest isn’t cultivated with these moments of softness. But I enjoy them too much.

“Careful,” I say as a real warning. “Or you’re going to make me think you missed me.”

He chuffs and doesn’t deny it. I sigh and sink into my place on his lap. With the warmth from the sun and him, the position is almost more decadent than the robes he gifted me.

---