“All the hardest, coldest people you meet were once as soft as water.
And that’s the tragedy of living.”
—Iain Thomas
“This will be your closet for now, okay?” Stella asks as she hangs the final dress in the smaller of two closets. My stomach tightens at the simple question.
My closet. In his room.
I let out a breath and nod.
When I went to find Aubrey in the spa, Stella had been down there too, and she insisted on showing me to Adam’s room herself. As it turns out, the brothers’ quarters are on the main floor like ours, except they’re on the east end.
“Well, then.” She slides the closet shut before turning to me, clasping her hands in a way that reminds me of Raife. “I’ll leave you to it. If there’s anything you need, let me or Aubrey know. All right?”
“Okay.”
After she exits, she pokes her head back inside. “And remember, you’ve had a big day. It’s important to get your beauty sleep.” She pauses. “That is, if he lets you.” Before I have time to respond, she gives a little wave and disappears behind the door.
With my feet stuck to the floor, I gulp as her words echo in my head.
If he lets you.
Adam Matthews, I am officially his.
To serve.
To please.
To be at his mercy.
I bite my lip as I wonder . . . what will it be like? Thoughts of earlier today come rushing back—his gaze burning mine, his warm body beneath my palms, strong hand working between my thighs.
Icy guilt stabs me when a heat wave floods my body. I shouldn’t feel the way I do. I shouldn’t be interested in anything other than finding Frankie. But knowing that isn’t enough to make it stop.
I want Adam.
Not just his hand, not just his body; a craving, new and unfamiliar, is gnawing deep within my core for him—his shadows and his secrets, the hidden caves inside his mind.
It’s twisted, and it’s sinful, and it’s everything Mama says I am.
My eyes squeeze shut, trying to block out the scolding voice I always hear.
I just need a closer look. A deeper taste. A little touch.
My eyes snap open.
With a shaky exhale and sweaty palms, I walk backwards toward the bed, Adam’s bed, jumping when the backs of my knees brush its coldness.
I’m supposed to be here for Frankie.
Not for my own dark temptations.
I wipe my palms on my nighty and finally let my gaze absorb my surroundings. The room is slightly bigger than the one I was given, but it’s still modest for a mansion. It smells of fresh linens with a hint of his aftershave. A large black rug sprawls across the white tiles, and a single rectangular dresser sits along the wall beside the bathroom.
I flick my gaze from corner to corner, looking for any personal touches, but there are none. A splash of black fabric dangling off the side of the laundry hamper is the only sign someone lives here.
Slowly, I turn and glance at the bed stretched out before me. It’s big enough to fit at least six people. The differences between this place and my trailer greet me at every turn, and I don’t think I’ll ever get used to it. The color scheme, though, I could get used to. Reaching forward, I run my fingers along the cool, smooth material of the comforter. It’s cold, just like the rest of the room, and perfectly made, not a wrinkle nor crease in sight.
My eyelids are heavy as exhaustion rolls through me.
Stella was right. I’ve had a long twenty-four hours, and standing in this silent, dark room, I’m beginning to feel every minute again. I let out a breath and look toward the door. There’s no way to tell how long it will be before he arrives.
I wonder what’s expected of me. Am I supposed to wait for him before I lie down? Do I draw a bath, undress, light candles? I shake my head. None of those things feel right for a man like Adam.
Not that I’ve known any men like Adam.
After a moment, I wander to the closets and peek inside the smaller one first, not really looking at the dresses or lingerie before my eyes. I’m stalling, my nerves tight, trying to build the courage to open his. I don’t know why it feels so wrong to snoop around his personal space when I didn’t think twice about the rest of the house, and yet it’s there—an undercurrent of uncertainty, danger, even a twinge of fear.
But it has to be done. None of the other brothers have let me get this close. If there’s any chance I might discover something to help me find Frankie, I have to know.
Inhaling sharply, I close my closet and open the one beside it. Rows of pressed, black button-downs and crisp pants line the racks. Three polished pairs of shoes sit on an oversized shelf meant to store at least ten times that many.
Nothing else.
Chewing my lip, I work my way to the dresser and flit through the drawers. A wave of surprise runs through me when I see actual, normal clothes. Not entirely normal—no jeans or T-shirts—but there are immaculately folded undershirts, boxers, and sweatpants. Hesitantly, I trace a finger along one of the pairs of pants, careful not to cause a crease.
Does he actually wear these? I can’t picture it at all.
When the bathroom turns out to be as useless as the rest of the space, I remove my contacts then pad across the room, sinking exhaustedly onto the bed. It doesn’t feel as strange as I thought it would, being in his bed, although there’s nothing to give away that it is his bed. The whole room feels distant, clinical. Nothing to offer an ounce of insight into the seductive darkness I sense within him.
I try to stay awake, keeping the light on so I won’t fall asleep before he gets here. But soon my eyelids flutter shut, and I drift away.