Page 91 of Caging Darling

I blanch, then find myself turning to look at Astor once more. My heart drops when I find the spot he’s been in all night is empty.

“You really should look more closely,” says the Nomad.

I frown, but when I focus on the corner, I notice something sparkling on the floor. Shattered glass, along with a clear liquid that’s been spilled out all around it. Water, not faerie wine.

I glance toward the door and find Astor, his back turned to me, striding out of the ballroom.

At one hand is a glinting hook.

His other hand is bleeding.

CHAPTER 33

The Nomad’s quarters are decadent. As he’s the captain of this fleet, I was expecting his room to look more like Astor’s. Practical elegance, maps, and carefully crafted furniture. The Nomad’s rooms are less practical and more showy. There are ornate tapestries hanging from the walls, though in the candlelight, I can’t make out the patterns.

After I change into my nightwear, I stand around awkwardly.

“Waiting for me to tell you what to do?” asks the Nomad, rolling up his night sleeves.

“I…” I bite my lip. I hate that after all this time, all I’ve been through, this is still the case.

“You can take the bed if you wish,” says the Nomad, “just know that I also intend to sleep in it once I’m done with business for the night.”

I shrug. “I’ll take the floor, then.”

The Nomad peers at me keenly. “Are you sure?”

“I don’t mind.” I don’t bother telling him that sleeping on the floor by myself sounds like a luxury compared to sleeping in a bed with Peter.

“As you wish,” says the Nomad, sounding skeptical but otherwise unbothered by the situation. He’s not exactly agentleman, but I probably shouldn’t expect as much from a crime lord. As it is, I’m just thankful that I am obviously not his type.

When he leaves for his office, I try to make myself a pallet on the floor, but the floorboards are lumpy and poke through the many layers of blankets I have stacked. I toss and turn, trying to figure out whether it’s actually worth it to sleep in the same bed as the Nomad. I don’t think it’s likely that he’ll touch me, and his bed is huge…

There’s a rattling at the locked door from where the Nomad locked me in.

I swallow all thoughts of getting in bed. I might have been brave enough to do it while the Nomad was away, letting him come in to me curled up under the blankets and fast asleep, but I certainly won’t climb into bed while he’s in the room and can mock me about it.

When the door opens with a creak, I pretend to be asleep, too emotionally exhausted to deal with conversing with the Nomad anymore.

Footsteps pad over toward me. I suppose he’s checking on me. How thoughtful of him.

“Please explain to me why you’re on the floor, Darling.”

My heart careens into my throat. My eyes fly open, and I find not the Nomad looming over me, but Nolan Astor.

My instant reaction is to bring the blanket over my chest, though my nightgown is modest. There’s a flicker of amusement in Astor’s eyes that incites a fury inside me I’m not sure I can contain.

“Get out,” I say.

“Get up,” he says.

The words land like a dagger in my heart and twist. How many nights have I spent over the last two years reliving that moment in Astor’s room, wishing I’d been brave enough to getback up after he pushed me to the floor? How many times have I wondered if things would have been different between us had I gotten back up and fought him, had I shown him more than a simpering little girl, weakened into resignation by her parents’ schemes?

“No.” That he told me to stand up and now I can’t do it without seeming like I’m obeying him gets under my skin. I am fully aware of how petulant I’m coming across, but I roll back over and yank the blanket over my head in defiance.

Astor chuckles, and the sound is so sweet, something I’ve craved for so long it pricks my heart, stabbing me underneath my ribcage.

“If that’s how you want it, then.” He steps over me and my bundle of blankets before crouching, placing his elbows on his knees. There’s a moment when the fingers on his right hand flex, like he out of habit intends to interlock his hands. But of course, there’s no match to his hand, just the glassy hook, so his hand just lingers in the air, grasping at nothing before he shrugs and places it back on his knee.

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