Page 33 of A Forbidden Arrangement
Every part of me wants to. Her wound is almost uncovered where the bandage has rolled down. It should’ve been changed hours ago, but if I push, she’ll slam the door in my face.
My jaw locks, and I force the words out slowly. “I’ll call the family doctor.”
Something flickers across her face. Relief, quick as a breath, before she catches it and sets her mouth hard again.
She starts to shut me out.
“You need to eat.” My voice cuts before the latch can click.
Her knuckles tighten. “You can’t make me go out there.”
I could. We both know I could. I could carry her to the table and sit her down, and she wouldn’t move until I let her. My fingers flex with the thought.
Instead, I pull back. “I’ll have the housekeeper bring something up.”
Her eyes narrow like she doesn’t trust the concession. She hesitates, gives the smallest nod, then shuts the door.
The latch clicks. Silence again.
I drag a hand down my face, tug at my hair until the sting cuts through the urge to force my way in. She’s right to be afraid of me. I’ve earned that fear a hundred times over.
I’ve killed more men than I can count. Put bullets in their skulls, knives in their guts. I’ve never pretended to be a goodman. And now I’ve dragged her straight into it. Drugged her. Inked my name into her skin. Locked her inside my walls.
Regret chews at me, but not enough to undo it. Not enough to let her go.
I should’ve stayed away. Watched her from a distance. Kept her safe without her ever knowing. But the second someone laid a hand on her, that thought burned to ash.
She’s in my world now and under my protection. Even if the one she fears most is me.
My eyes stay fixed on where she disappeared, every part of me wanting to push it open. Instead, I pull out my phone and text the doctor.
Chapter 16
Dahlia:
The soup shouldn’t tastethis good.
I sit cross-legged on the bed, bowl balanced on my knees, spoon in hand like I’m five again and hiding upstairs from my mom. The broth is hot, rich, buttery, and way too comforting for a prison meal. Each swallow makes my body sigh in relief, which only puts me more on edge. Comfort is dangerous. Comfort makes you forget you’re locked in the tower.
I shove the spoon back into the bowl and scowl down at it. Really? I’ve been kidnapped, branded, and trapped in a billionaire’s lair, and I’m complimenting the soup? Nice priorities, Dahlia.
The door creaks, and I nearly dump the whole thing into my lap. Mrs. Price, the housekeeper who brought me lunch earlier, steps in.
She’s an older woman, hair tied back in a neat bun and an apron dusted with flour. She’s carrying what looks like folded clothing.
“Oh, good,” she says, spotting the half-empty bowl. “You’re eating.”
I blink. “Should I not be?”
Her smile deepens, like she’s in on some secret. “I was a bit worried you wouldn’t. He’s been impossible, pacing holes in the floor over you.”
My stomach knots, spoon frozen halfway up. “You mean Xander?”
She gives me a look that saysobviously. “Who else? Don’t let his growling fool you—he’s better than he seems. Just doesn’t know what to do with himself now that he’s finally got a wife in the house.”
I choke. I have to thump my chest to swallow the bite of soup trying to kill me. I’m not sure I’ll ever get used to him calling me his “wife.”
She shrugs, matter-of-fact. “It’s about time, if you ask me. Man his age, no one to share this place with. He doesn’t even bring his nieces and nephews over. Stubborn. He needs someone to soften him. A little romance in his life.”
