Chapter Sixteen
T he sunrise lit up her hair and face. Looking lost and vulnerable, she all at once crushed me and took my breath away.
It was the only excuse I had for dropping my guard and telling her she was beautiful.
But I couldn’t let it go any further.
Forcing myself to look away from her tears and the raw need in her eyes, I stared at the ocean. “Are you in pain?”
“No.”
“Why are you sitting on the floor?” I’d never sat on the floor in the penthouse just to sit. Push-ups, sit-ups—yes. Sitting like this? No.
“I was trying to feel grounded.”
Her voice, quiet and sad, made me glance back at her.
She turned away. “Your compliment just ruined that.”
I wouldn’t apologize. “I’m not going to lie to you.”
“Aren’t you?” she accused, bringing her gorgeous eyes back to me. “I’m here. Isn’t that lie enough?”
“How is protecting you a lie?”
She turned back to the sunrise again. “I don’t belong here.”
“You’re right.” I kept my word. I didn’t lie to her.
Her gaze snapped to mine.
“But not for the reasons you think,” I explained.
“And what reasons do you think I’m thinking?” she challenged.
“I know you grew up in the foster system, and I’m a Savatier. That makes you uncomfortable.” I’d seen her expression when she first walked into my penthouse.
She let out a half laugh, half snort. “Don’t mince words, say what you mean, why don’t you?”
“You don’t belong here because you’re married.” I waited a beat, but she didn’t comment or look at me. I laid out the rest of it. “And what I’m feeling, I shouldn’t be feeling for a married woman. It has nothing to do with where you came from.” I didn’t give a shit what her last name was or that she grew up without privilege. I’d watched my father cheat on my mother every chance he got over the years, and I’d sworn to myself I would never end up like him.
She didn’t say a word.
Tired, guilt-ridden, frustrated, I stood. “Get some sleep, Genevieve.” God knew the painkiller I gave her should’ve knocked her out by now. I turned toward my bedroom.
Her voice, small and vulnerable, hit me square in my chest. “I can’t sleep.” She sucked in a sharp breath. “Every time I close my eyes, I see them, their guns….” She trailed off.
I told myself not to.
I told myself to walk away.
But I hadn’t made one smart decision since I’d poured her a whiskey.
I walked back and scooped her up. Folded like a child, her knees fell over my arm and her hands entwined around my neck. I took the first full breath since I’d stepped into my penthouse. Carrying her to my bedroom, laying her on my bed, I told myself this didn’t make me a shit person like my father.
When I crawled in behind her, gently slid my arm under her head and brought her back to my chest, I told myself it was for her comfort.
When she let out a long breath, I justified my actions as the right decision.
“Go to sleep, Genevieve.” It took everything I had not to touch my lips to her skin. “I’m not going to let anything happen to you.” Including myself.
“You already did,” she whispered.
She was right, and I knew it, but it still cut like a knife. “I’m sorry.”
“The carjacking wasn’t your fault,” she said, even quieter.
The entire night was my fault. “Close your eyes,” I ordered, putting just enough force into my tone.
“Okay,” she breathed, submitting to my command.
Ignoring the desire pounding through my veins, I catalogued the feel of my arm around her waist, the swell of her hips covered in my bedding, and the rise and fall of her breathing as I watched the clock on the nightstand.
Then I allowed myself five minutes just to feel.
She was beyond anything I’d ever expected. She smelled like hospital, antiseptic and my T-shirt, but she also smelled like woman. Not cloying perfume, but purity. Sunrises, red hair, green eyes, ivory skin, she smelled like she belonged to someone else, and nothing I’d ever wanted. She smelled like everything a Savatier wasn’t, and I wanted to sink inside her.
But she’d lied to me.
My five minutes up, I forced myself to close my eyes.
As if she knew the exact moment I did, she whispered into the dark, “Goodnight, Sawyer.”
I inhaled everything that was her. “Goodnight, Genevieve.”