Page 31 of Recklessly Rogue

I read the message.

Don’t be ridiculous.

I don’t really know what that’s supposed to mean.You want the couch? Go for it. Pillows and blankets are in the hall closet. GOODNIGHT.

There. Capital letters. That should do it.

I wait.

I shift my weight. I scratch an itch on my shoulder. I bite my lip. I start to text him more but then delete it. I check that my message went through. It did.

So he’s just not going to respond?

Okay, good.

That means he got the message. And is going to do things my way.

Right?

I almost laugh. Henry Dean doesn’t do things anyone’s way but his.

Well, that may not be true. The king probably gives him directions.

But Henry pretty much always gets his way. He can probably charm and sweet-talk King Diarmuid too. Wouldn't surprise me a bit.

I frown. Wait. Does this mean he wants to sleep on the couch?

And why do I feel a twinge of disappointment that he’s not fighting me harder on this?

I should be grateful. Resisting him is nearly impossible—fine, so far it’s been impossible because I have not successfully done it yet—so if he just lets it go, I’m in much better shape.

Still, this is very unlike him.

The guy flew seven hours across most of an ocean because he thought I needed protection. The guy kissed me in the bar like he was starving for me.

Because of the creaky floorboards, I tiptoe to the top of the staircase and listen carefully.

He’s moving around down there. I’m sure he’s checking the locks on all the doors and windows.

It’s funny how when Henry is in the house, I’m less diligent about those things myself. That’s always a part of my before-bed routine.

I hear paper rustling, and I creep partway down the stairs so I can lean over and look through the banister. He’s cleaning up the living room, gathering the plastic, boxes, and paper that wrapped Elliot’s new toys.

I sigh. He’s cleaning up my house. Why can’t he be a slob? Or inconsiderate? Or terrible with kids?

He’s a bossy asshole sometimes, but, unfortunately for me, that makes me hot.

I listen as he makes his way across the room and into the kitchen. The back door opens, then closes and I know he’s going out to the trash receptacle. I wait but he doesn’t come right back in.

He’s probably checking the perimeter of my yard for threats.

My nipples tingle and my traitorous pussy clenches.

I’m not used to being protected.

I think my mom and Brian worried about me. I know Scarlett does. A few friends here and there did too. But no one’s actively, physically,protectedme.

That’s usually my job. I give people what resources they need—at least what I can—and I’ll get in someone’s face if needed. But I’m obviously not as confident, nor as effective, as Henry.

---