When Ruhn got back to his guest room at the Brotherhood’s mansion, he closed himself in and looked around at the fine decor. Everything was so beautiful, from the wallpaper, which certainly looked like silk, to the antique dressers and desk, to the canopied bed that was draped in the same kind of heavy fabric that the walls seemed to be covered in.
He’d always thought it looked fit for the King.
He’d never felt comfortable under that canopy with all those fancy pillows and the monogrammed bedspread—and he had even contemplated sleeping on the rug with a blanket over him. He had been worried, though, that word would get back through the maids that tidied up every night and his hosts would take offense.
Crossing over to the walk-in closet, he had another jolt of I-don’t-belong as he opened the double doors and confronted the rows upon rows of barren hangers and shoe shelves. His two or three T-shirts, two pairs of jeans, and work boots took up no space at all on the right. The sweaters and slacks that Bitty, Rhage, and Mary had gotten him as the household had celebrated the human holiday, Christmas, had seemed like way too much when he’d been unwrapping them. In this vast wardrobe containment space, they made no dent at all.
He removed his clothes and put everything into the hamper.
He’d had to get used to his laundry being done for him. In the beginning, he had fought tooth and nail to have Fritz and the staff leave his things alone so he could take care of them, but in the end, he had caved.
That hangdog face the butler assumed when he was denied work was more than what Ruhn could withstand.
Walking naked into the bathroom, he was tempted to leave the lights off, but he needed to see the truth of how badly he’d been hurt—
“Oh.”
Going over to the stretch of mirror above the two marble sinks, he shook his head. “Oh…dear.”
His face looked bad. Really bad. One whole side was puffy and distorted, and he leaned in closer to the glass and prodded the bruising gently with his finger. The answering pain suggested that Saxton might be right; that cheekbone might well be broken and maybe he did need a healer.
And then there was his split lip.
“Maybe a shower will help.”
He had no idea who he was speaking to.
Moving across to the glass enclosure, he opened the see-through door and turned on the water. The fact that there were six different showerheads had always seemed like a ridiculous luxury to him—but he never complained once he was in the spray.
He certainly did not tonight.
His body was aching in places, and he hissed as the open cuts on the backs of his knuckles came in contact with water. His left arm was sore, but he didn’t dwell on the why of it. That would have required him replaying the fight in his mind and he wanted to pretend nothing had happened.
After he had soaped and shampooed—he didn’t condition; he didn’t understand why people got their hair clean just to put crap right back in it—he stepped out, toweled off, and tried to win an argument with himself for not going to the clinic.
Bitty made up his mind for him, however.
If she saw him like this, all banged up? Or if things healed wrong and that side of his face ended up contorted permanently? She might think he was the monster he had been.
He couldn’t bear that.
Back in the closet, he pulled on fresh jeans, a clean Hanes undershirt, and that blue sweater Bitty had gotten for him.
He wore the sweater for good luck. For strength. For—
The knock on his door was soft and that was not good news. Maybe it was his niece, having seen his truck parked out in the courtyard with the other vehicles.
“Who is it?” he said.
There was a pause. “Me.”
As Saxton’s voice registered, Ruhn was so shocked he couldn’t move. But then he snapped into action and went for the door.
Opening it, he found himself gripping the knob so hard, his forearm hurt. “Hello.”
“May I please have a moment of your time? In private?”
As Novo felt Peyton go still on top of her, she froze herself. This wasn’t supposed to happen—not so much the sex, although she had surprised herself with wanting him even though she was train-wreck tired still. No, what she didn’t want was the kind of sex they’d had.
Fucking. She only ever wanted raging sex, the kind that rattled your teeth and broke beds, that you were sore for the night after from, that made you feel like you’d been in a car accident.
Not this soft, gentle stuff.
The former was athletic and aggressive, and so it was easier to keep a guard up. What she and Peyton had just done? It was too close. To…intimate.
“What’s wrong?” he asked her.
As he pulled back, she couldn’t meet his eyes. “Nothing. It’s fine.”
After a moment, he withdrew—and she hated that her body missed him immediately. That was also something she did not need.
“You know,” he said in a level voice, “sooner or later, you’re going to have to decide whether you like me or not.”
A pang of conscience made her more honest than she would ordinarily have been. “It’s not you. Honest.”
“Oh, my God, what a line.” His smile was dry as he swung his legs around and sat on the edge of the bed. “And you know, I’ve used it, too. It’s always a lie.”
“Not always.”
“Well. Most of the time.”
There was a long period of silence, and she tried not to trace his shoulders and upper body with her eyes. The extra muscle suited him. And it wasn’t the only place where he was big.
She shut her lids as a blast of pure erotic heat whipped through her like a solar flare.
“I do like you,” she heard herself say. “I’m just not…good at the whole relationship thing.”
He looked across his shoulder at her. “Annnnnnd I have also used that line! Hey, give me back my playbook.”
“It’s true.”
Peyton seemed to focus on the floor as he shook his head. “No, frankly, it’s bullshit. ’Cuz who is good at relationships? And is that where you saw us going? Wait, don’t answer that—because it’s in the past tense now, clearly.”
Novo sat up. “Peyton. I’m serious.”
“My given name. I guess you are.” He slid off the high bed and pulled on his slacks. “And it’s cool. It’s whatever, you know. I am not going to push you.”
“I’m just not interested in anything.”
“Evidently. Although I guess I should be complimented by the fact that you’re threatened by me. It’s a backhander, to be sure. But you probably only give this strong-arm speech to people you think maybe, possibly, just might get past your badass shell. So hey, sign me up for that merit badge, ’kay? It’ll probably be a middle finger against a background of female empowerment, but I’m sure I can find a jacket to put it on.”
As she stared at him, the words came to her, but only in her mind: I lost a young. After the male left me for my sister—and Sophy only came on to him to prove she could win, okay? I miscarried alone, in a cold house, and promised myself I would never, ever get involved emotionally with anyone ever again.
And then you come along, and for a while, I got to write you off as a rich asshole…until you promised me you would never hurt me and then made love to me instead of fucked me.
Now I want to run from you because I don’t want to learn that lesson twice.
Okay, fine, that would all be so much better spoken instead of merely thought and kept to herself. But she couldn’t seem to make that leap. She couldn’t seem to open her mouth and tell him about all the reasons why no one, not just him, was allowed to get through to her.
“I’m going to go,” he said, “before you have to throw another line of mine back at me. Which, I’m willing to bet, is going to be the whole I’m so sorry, but I have to crash now because I have to work—which, at least for me, was actually a bold-faced lie up until I came into the program. But there you go.”
Bending down, he picked up his socks and shoved them in his pants pockets. Grabbed his shirt and put it on. The jacket as well. His loafers—were those made of ostrich skin?—went on first the left and then the right. He finger-combed his hair. Snagged his cuff links.
As he added more and more clothing to his formerly naked frame, he moved faster and faster, as if his departure were a train gathering momentum.
“So I’ll see you when I see you.” Peyton paused by the door. “And the message has been received, okay? I’ll leave you alone, especially now that you’re back on your feet.”
He gave her a smile that was right out of a fashion magazine, all cocky and full of perfect white teeth. “Take care.”
He knocked on the jamb like a judge putting the gavel down on a case, and then he was gone as if he had never been.
In the silence, she told herself it was for the best. He felt too good. He got past her defenses too often. He was the kind of surprise she did not need in her life.
And his departure couldn’t be better. By the time she saw him next—and that would be Saturday night—he would be re-categorized appropriately and all would be well.
She wasn’t going to have it any other way.