CHAPTER FOUR

ASH WOKE TO AN EMPTY, unfamiliar bed.

Not that he didn’t wake that way all the time…but he was usually half as hung over, twice as sore, and not in his own house.

Even if, right now, he wasn’t in his own bed. He was confused for a moment—the master suite was new to him, and that didn’t feel like his bed either when he’d moved out to the pool house the moment he’d returned to the States, and never come back. He’d tried to lie there in that master suite last night, looking up at the vaulted ceilings and listening to the night come in through the windows, cricket-sounds and leaf-whisper riding the breeze, the bed too large for him and everything making him think it should be his father in this room, not him.

Even if his father had never used the grand master suite, either. He slept in a room off his office in the east wing of the house.

Sometimes Ash thought it was no coincidence that that room was as far as it could possibly be from the pool house, letting them circle around each other without their orbits ever intersecting.

That was what they were, he’d thought last night—staring at the mindless eyes of the ceiling’s stucco dots through a haze of champagne that he’d only swilled halfheartedly, the fizzy taste and alcoholic bite doing nothing to chase away a feeling that left him all wrong in his own skin, ill-fitted and his limbs sticking wrong. He and his father were planets in orbits that never overlapped, circling a darkness without even the warmth of a single star.

Maybe that was why Ash always tried to burn himself out, living fast and living hard.

He just wanted the warmth of one bright star, burning in the darkness of his night.

It was that which had chased him from bed, last night—and to the only human warmth close by. Maybe if he’d been sober he wouldn’t have done it. Maybe if he’d been thinking straight, he’d have remembered those cold, cutting green eyes and the contempt with which Forsythe regarded him. Maybe if he hadn’t been hurting all the way down to the marrow of his bones, he’d have thought of that kiss he didn’t understand, and that boundary that shouldn’t have been crossed.

But he hadn’t been sober. He hadn’t been thinking straight. He’d been hurting to the point where it was a physical thing knotted inside him, choking off his air.

So he’d ended up curled up against Brand Forsythe’s back, falling asleep with the man’s body heat cradling him, safe so long as Forsythe didn’t look at him and see him for how small and cowardly he really was.

And now he was waking up alone in Forsythe’s bed, the smell of fresh-cut grass drifting in on the breeze that ruffled the linen curtains over open patio doors. The door between the adjoining master suite and Forsythe’s was open. The man himself was nowhere to be found.

Ash groaned, burying his face in the pillows—pillows that had a faint trace of that earthy scent that had surrounded him as he’d fallen asleep, that scent that had seemed to block out the world and say everything would be okay as long as he let Forsythe take care of anything he needed.

Take care of him.

What was he doing?

What had he been thinking, crawling into the man’s bed and curling against him for comfort like some kind of small child?

Maybe he could blame it on the alcohol.

And order Forsythe not to ever speak a word about this again.

“Young Master,” Forsythe said smoothly, his voice so close Ash nearly jumped when he hadn’t heard him come back into the room at all, soundless as a cat.

He flushed hotly and peered over his bare arm. Forsythe stood in the door with one of Ash’s suits draped over one arm, a long linen napkin folded over the other, a tray balanced in both hands, piled with croissants dripping with melted blue cheese and what looked like slivers of beef. It smelled at once mouthwatering and nauseating, when his head was on fire again and his blood alcohol content was low enough to make him want to puke. He eyed Forsythe, then grumbled and buried his face into the pillow again.

“…I guess I can’t tell you to get out when it’s your room.”

“And my bed,” Forsythe replied archly. “At least you had the decency to be clothed this time.”

“I wasn’t going to get into your bed naked!”

Forsythe said nothing. Ash risked another peek over his arm, but Forsythe was still only watching him with that immovable calm, one sardonic brow arched, completely unreadable.

While Ash was trying not to think about getting into Forsythe’s bed naked when he still remembered how the man tasted.

Like still-burning embers on his tongue, scorching into him without end.

That flush seared deeper until he felt on fire from inside, and he pressed his cheek against his arm, clearing his throat. “…anyway.” He wasn’t talking about this. Wasn’t thinking about it, or the fact that he knew the feeling of the broad, taut muscles of Forsythe’s back moving underneath his palms, his cheek, with every slow inhalation and exhalation.

“If you would like to sit up,” Forsythe said, “you may eat, and then you should dress so that we might be on our way.”

“Another day of contracts?”

“And quite a few phone calls.”

“Great.”

Sighing, Ash pushed himself up and leaned against the headboard, taking in the room while Forsythe settled the tray across his lap. He’d never been in any of the servants’ quarters throughout the house, let alone any of those adjoining the master suites, unless he had tumbled through them as a child and just forgotten the memory. This house had never really felt like home, not when he’d been sent off to Liverpool and boarding school so young, but even after barely more than a day Forsythe had added a few touches that made the room feel lived in, when so much of the echoing mansion didn’t. A plaid casual shirt draped over a rattan chair, shoes lined up neatly just outside the closet, several ties laid over the bureau, cufflinks shining in a tray. Books lined on the top row of a shelf, the other shelves empty but several neatly labeled cardboard boxes stacked underneath. Ash squinted, leaning forward a little, trying to read the gilded spines; what did Forsythe like to rea—

“Young Master Ashton.” Forsythe cleared his throat pointedly. “You are not eating.”

Ash jerked his gaze back, wide-eyed, then ducked his head and picked up one of the croissants. “…sorry,” he mumbled, then took a bite—only to nearly moan as marinated beef and blue cheese and buttery croissant practically melted on his tongue. “Oh my God,” he managed around another mouthful. “Richard made this?”

“Please do not talk with your mouth full. It’s unseemly.” Forsythe’s lips thinned as he bent to lay the linen napkin precisely along the side of Ash’s tray. Sheepishly, Ash picked up the napkin and wiped at his mouth, catching Forsythe’s gaze sidelong. “And no. He did not. He wanted to feed you some sort of gluten-free claptrap, and I decided otherwise. He was rather incensed.”

Ash made himself swallow before he let himself smile. “Richard mostly cooks to feed himself. I’m never here, and Dad usually eats—”

He caught himself on the present tense, heart sinking. Fuck. He stared down at his tray, then made himself take another bite of croissants that suddenly had no taste at all.

At least Forsythe had the tact not to say anything.

And Ash suddenly didn’t want to talk.

It was an odd twenty minutes, spent eating breakfast in Forsythe’s bed while the man moved about the room, laying out Ash’s clothing on the foot of the bed and tidying his own personal effects in silence. Ash took that time to study him surreptitiously from under his lashes, distracting himself from his morbid thoughts. Forty-eight hours and Forsythe had already invaded his life, taken it over, twisted it up, and Ash was still trying to find balance and figure the man out. Nothing about him made sense. From how easily he’d accepted the job to the way he always seemed to anticipate Ash’s every need to why he hadn’t even asked about Ash crawling into his bed.

Or that kiss.

No, that kiss definitely did not make sense at all.

Ash stole a sip of the coffee from the steaming mug on the tray. Black, bitter this time, and the tight tremor of his lips managed to relax into a faint smile.

“Black,” he said softly, lifting the mug.

“I do listen,” Forsythe replied, smoothing out a tie atop the suit laid on the bed, then straightening and dusting off his gloved hands. “Would you prefer to bathe in my bathroom, or yours?”

“Eh? Oh. Um, yours is fine? The one off the master bedroom doesn’t have a shower. Just, like, a swimming pool.”

“You prefer showers, then?”

“Yeah.”

Forsythe adjusted his glasses, pushing them up with one middle finger. “Temperature?”

“Uh?” Ash blinked. “Usually hot as it’ll go, but—hey!”

He was talking to Forsythe’s back.

Then to nothing at all, as Forsythe disappeared into the bathroom.

“Uh…?” Ash called. “You don’t have to run my shower for me!”

The only answer was the creak of the faucet—then the sound of running, spraying water.

Ash sank back against the pillows, cradling the mug in both hands, just…blinking.

Having a valet was weird.

The throbbing in his skull had gone down, at least, by the time he topped off his last few bites of croissant and chased them with the Tylenol waiting neatly inside a napkin folded into a little flower cup. He slid out of the bed gingerly, padding toward the bathroom, and started to peer inside—only to bump right into Forsythe as he was emerging, planting almost nose-first in his broad chest.

With a yelp, Ash retreated, staring up at the man. Forsythe cast a long shadow, dwarfing him, that feeling of being small once more, and Ash’s stomach tightened strangely. He swallowed, licking his lips. “Um, I’ll…be right out.”

“Leave your clothing over the door and I’ll have it laundered,” was all Forsythe said, before ducking around him.

Ash slipped into the bathroom, body almost grazing Forsythe’s bulk, a tingling whisper of body heat licking over his skin and leaving him shivering as he shut the bathroom door behind him and then slumped against it.

Demon. Fucking demon.

Quickly, he stripped down and opened the door just enough to drape his pajama pants over it before shutting it again and slipping into the glass-walled shower. He scrubbed himself off quickly, letting the spray scour and steam him until he felt at least human again, closing his eyes and losing himself in the relaxing heat. He ducked his head under the spray quickly, raking his fingers through his hair, then shook it off, shut the water off, and turned to reach for the shower door.

Only to find Forsythe standing outside the shower stall, a large, fluffy white towel spread and waiting between his hands.

Ash fucking shrieked, stumbling back and grabbing at the shower head to keep from slipping, his heart turning over.

Then immediately grabbing at his groin to cover himself, glaring at Forsythe, his face fucking boiling so much it was a miracle the water didn’t steam right off his cheeks.

“Goddammit, Forsythe, I’m naked!”

“I,” Forsythe deadpanned, “am trying to remedy that.”

“Oh my fucking God. Get out.”

“It is my bathroom, and you are not yet dry.”

“It’s my house, now leave the towel and get out!”

Forsythe’s lips thinned. “No.”

Ash stared. “No?”

“I will not be derelict in my duty,” Forsythe said, an edge of something darkening his voice, commanding and sharp. “Step out of the shower. Allow me to dry and dress you, and then we will be on our way.”

There it was again—that way Forsythe had about him that made Ash just want to go belly-up, this small and helpless thing in Forsythe’s hands. Part of him simmered, wanting to rebel…but his knees were weak and his gut felt strange and there was a tight pulling feeling in his inner thighs that he didn’t understand, a flutter in his chest that left him confused and meek. And after a frustrated, flustered moment he ducked his head, keeping his hands over his hips as he stepped dripping and naked out of the shower.

The towel—thick and soft and heavy and warm as if it had just come out of the dryer—enveloped him. So did Forsythe’s arms, folding around him and caging him as the man enfolded him in soft Egyptian cotton, shrouding him until he was at least decent, and beginning to gently work the towel over Ash’s body. Ash wrapped his arms around himself and made himself hold still as strong, capable hands touched him everywhere, their heat hardly muted through the thick layer of the towel and Forsythe’s gloves, stroking over him with a surety and confidence that seemed to know him.

The entire time Forsythe said nothing, the only sounds the faint rasp of cloth on skin and the wild beat of Ash’s heart. He risked a glance upward, expecting to find Forsythe preoccupied, gaze on his hands.

Only to find those dark green eyes locked right on him, watching him with a quiet intensity that stole his breath.

And Forsythe held his gaze unwaveringly, trapping him like a cobra mesmerizing a mouse, as he stepped forward—and with measured, deliberated strides, backed Ash from the bathroom and into the bedroom, the sheer bulk of his body herding him. Clutching at the towel, Ash stumbled back, retreating, but Forsythe never let more than an inch of space flow between them as Ash wobbled into the bedroom, then bumped up against the post at the foot of the bed. He froze, staring up at Forsythe as the man leaned in, that crushing bulk nearly pressing into him.

And leaning around him to pluck a pair of clean boxer-briefs from the clothing laid out on the bed.

Forsythe arched a brow, the glint in his eyes bordering on amused, as he sank down to one knee. Ash groaned, closing his eyes, and thunked his head back against the bed post.

That man wasn’t a demon.

He was the fucking devil.

He didn’t resist as Forsythe gently encircled one ankle, lifted it, and guided Ash’s foot into the boxer-briefs, then the other, before skimming them up his calves and thighs. For a moment heavy hands framed his hips as Forsythe settled the boxer-briefs into place, gripping as if in possessive claim…before falling away to tug the towel from Ash’s unresisting fingers and drape it across the footboard. His undershirt pulled over his head, next, then a white and crisply starched button-down—and Ash looked up at Forsythe with his thoughts a formless, wordless knot of confusion and wondered at his own obedience as he raised his arms so Forsythe could slip them into the sleeves.

As Forsythe began to button the shirt, his gloved knuckles grazing against Ash’s skin through the undershirt, he murmured, “You are staring at me, young Master Ashton.” That pointed brow again, darkened eyes drilling. “You have been staring at me.”

“I’m practically naked. You’re dressing me,” Ash managed to force out, throat dry. His entire body felt too tight, and only drew tighter as that touch grazed higher. “And you kissed me yesterday.”

“I am aware,” Forsythe responded blandly, as if reciting his appointments for the day. “Did you think I had forgotten?”

“I don’t know!” Ash spluttered. “I…is…like is that an English thing?” He didn’t know what he was saying, words coming out jumbled and all wrong. “Valets are also like…personal concubines?”

Forsythe’s mouth curved slightly at the corners. He buttoned the top button underneath Ash’s chin, then pulled away to catch his trousers next, holding them so Ash could step into them. Forsythe pulled them up around his hips, deft fingers teasing against Ash’s waist as Forsythe tucked his shirt in—only to make him gasp, stomach dropping out, as Forsythe briefly jerked him forward by his grasp on the waistband, before dragging the zipper up and firmly slipping the button closed.

Only to frown, immediately unbutton and unzip Ash’s slacks again, and drop to his knees.

Ash froze. “Forsythe!”

“Your button is loose,” Forsythe said, as if the button had personally offended him, and tugged at the slacks—giving Ash no choice but to stumble out of them. “And to answer your question, no. That is not ‘an English thing.’”

That…really didn’t answer anything at all.

It just left Ash staring at Forsythe, just as confused as before, as the man slipped his hand into his pocket and retrieved a little paper card with several needles stuck into it, one end wound with different colors of thread.

“I shall mend it,” Forsythe pronounced, already selecting a needle, “and you can have it back.”

“You keep a needle and thread in your pocket?”

“A proper valet is prepared for anything.” And Forsythe was already picking out a slim length of thread, black to match the slacks, and deftly threading it through the eye of a needle.

Suspicion pricked at Ash. He eyed Forsythe. “Including your employer wanting to duck out in the middle of the day for a hookup?”

“Precisely,” Forsythe said without missing a beat, and stabbed the needle into a buttonhole.

Ash let out a startled laugh. “That was an asshole move,” he said, and Forsythe’s lips curved—dark, pleased, almost certainly smug, but a quiet smile nonetheless.

“It worked.”

The next beat of Ash’s heart came erratic and strange. “…you smiled.”

For a moment, Forsythe’s gaze darted up to him. A glimmer of warmth darkened them…or was Ash imagining that, in the reflections off his glasses?

“You gave me reason to,” Forsythe murmured.

“Oh.” Ash dropped numbly to sit on the edge of the bed, leaning back on his hands. “I…” He didn’t know what to say. Fuck, he’d been a prickly mess since the moment Forsythe walked into his office. Before. He stole a shy glance at the man, then offered, “I…I’m not trying to be a disappointment. I’m not trying to be a fuckup. Really, I’m not. I swear.”

“No?”

“No.” Ash bit his lip. “I’m just…scared. I thought I’d have time before this happened. I thought I’d have forever. Me taking over the company was just one day, but suddenly it’s now—and I’m scared.”

“So you run,” Forsythe observed, fingers working deftly with the needle, thread looping and then tightening in tiny black arcs.

“Run. Check out mentally. Shut down. You name it, I do it.”

“If you run, there is a guarantee that you will fail.” Forsythe looped the thread into a little knot, tied it off, then bit the end off with a quick snap of his teeth, sensuous lips gliding against the thread momentarily. The needle vanished into his pocket. “If you try, it is only a possibility.” He drew closer, then, smoothing the creases in the slacks, before sinking to one knee and gently gripping Ash’s ankle to guide his foot into the leg of the slacks, gloves grazing soft against his skin. He looked like some strange knight kneeling before a lady, or a prince offering Cinderella her glass slipper, and those dark eyes were strange and warm and quiet and searching as he looked up at Ash. “Try, young Master.”

Ash smiled faintly. “Are you actually trying to encourage me?”

“I believe that, too, is in my job description.”

Sighing, Ash shook his head, shifting to make it easier for Forsythe to slide the slacks up his legs. “You confuse me, Forsythe.”

“You have known me for two days.” Suddenly rough hands had him by the hips, dragging him forward with undeniable strength and not so much as an if-you-please, Ash’s stomach flipping as Forsythe’s grasp lifted him to his feet, positioning him until he stood with Forsythe kneeling at his feet, so close that the man’s breaths stirred warm through his shirt as he murmured, “It takes at least three before I am an open book to my employer.”

“Funny,” Ash rasped, and that brief smile flitted across Forsythe’s lips again.

“Here.” He tucked Ash’s shirt quickly, neatly into his waistband, then zipped Ash up again and rose to his feet. “Much better.”

He guided Ash into a tie, next, fitting and looping it neatly into a Windsor knot, then a soft, dark gray waistcoat and the matching black suit coat. They, too, fit perfectly, and Ash once more checked the cuffs for that tell-tale line of fresh stitching.

When did Forsythe find the time?

Forsythe smoothed the suit coat over Ash’s shoulders, settling it into place. There was something soothing about the touch, about feeling like Forsythe had put him together one piece at a time until he was ready to face the day. Ash offered a faint smile. “Thank you.”

“You are welcome, young Master.” With a brief bow, Forsythe stepped back. “Now if you are prepared, you are due at the office for a Board meeting in approximately twenty-seven minutes.”

Panic laced, sharp and shrill, through him. “What? When were you going to tell me that?”

“I put it in your email calendar last night.”

“I didn’t check that!”

“Why not?” Forsythe asked pointedly.

“Oh my God, you are such an asshole.” Ash dragged a hand over his face—then flinched and resisted the urge to bat Forsythe away when the man came at him with a comb, sliding it into his hair and smoothing it back from his face. Fucking hell, he was going to look like his father if this kept up. “What’s the meeting about?”

“Shareholder projections for the fourth quarter,” Forsythe murmured. With a gentle touch he tucked a lock of Ash’s hair behind his ear, grazing the upper curve; Ash fought the urge to shiver and jerked away. Forsythe was just full of too many mixed signals—hard claiming kisses and cold demanding words and careful attentive care and fucking asshole surprises, leaving Ash to flounder only to offer a hand before he drowned.

He just…he couldn’t deal with this right now, whatever game Forsythe was playing.

“I don’t even know what that means,” he deflected.

“You may want to learn quickly.” Forsythe’s hand vanished inside his coat with the comb, and re-emerged with a dark brown expanding file, laced closed with a snap of black elastic. He offered it to Ash with a brief bow. “You can read it in the car.”

Ash took the folder, unlooped the elastic, and spilled out several pages of printed bullet points and charts. “…what’s this?”

“A cheat sheet, as it were. Enough talking points to get you through.”

Frowning, Ash paged through the notes, rifling the printouts quickly. “When did you make this?”

“Last night, as well.” Forsythe inclined his head. “I would not let my young Master go in unprepared.”

With a sigh, Ash flipped the folder closed. “I can’t tell if you’re trying to break me, or build me up.”

“What if one must occur for the other to be possible?”

“…I’m too hung over to answer tha—”

He broke off as, this time, a fresh bottle of water appeared from inside that bottomless coat; Forsythe offered it expectantly. Ash exhaled, unable to help a rueful smile. Hydrate a hangover. Right. And of course Forsythe had the answer right there.

“Thank you.”

The only acknowledgment Forsythe gave was a sharp gleam in his eyes, a pointed glance. “I would thank you to break this pattern, and be sober tomorrow morning.”

“Then stop driving me to drink,” Ash said dryly.

“I make no promises,” Forsythe retorted, and swept that deeply mocking bow once more, extending his arm toward the door. “I follow where my young Master leads.”

“Asshole,” Ash said.

Forsythe’s low, velvet-and-sand laughter chased him from the room, a near-sinister purr. One that seemed to promise Forsythe knew something Ash didn’t. Some end game played by all the wrong rules.

And Ash wasn’t sure he wanted to know what would happen if he lost.