Chapter 9
It took no time at all to unlock the front door. Almost infuriating at how easy it was—how vulnerable it made her.
The door clicked shut behind me, and I didn’t bother relocking it.
As quiet as a mouse, I crept through the Ashcroft house, taking in meager changes as I went.
The décor had modernized into art and furniture with sharper edges compared to the Victorian style Hunter had been partial too.
Colors were brighter in places that used to be dark wood.
Not that it personally affected me, but I much preferred the house a decade ago.
Changes in aesthetic didn’t hinder my path through the long hall to the back of the house.
By the time I passed the kitchen my heart rate had doubled, pounding erratically against my ribs.
The lingering aroma of her soap and floral lotion lingered outside the bathroom, and the potency nearly sent me to my knees.
My hand lingered on the bathroom doorknob for longer than I’d like to admit. It took an insurmountable effort to peel myself from the temptation of finding evidence of her shower. The thought of taking a few golden strands of hair from her brush rushed through me, but I successfully bypassed them.
The door groaned when I applied pressure, and I held my breath.
Silence continued and I pushed enough to fit through the gap.
The changes to the room struck me at first. I remembered the drawing room from ages ago where Hunter and I had spent hours drinking, talking, and planning when we weren’t in his study.
Brown leather couches had been replaced by a desk near the fireplace and the sideboard that held Hunter’s whiskey collection had been replaced by a bed.
A drawer for clothes had been added, otherwise the room was relatively untouched.
The same moody green darkened the walls, and a small portion of the old language professor’s book collection spilled from the shelves around the fireplace.
A nest of pillows and blankets sat messy and waiting on the bay window looking out over the garden. Adorable.
But now I knew the view from inside surpassed the view from outside the glass.
A dim fire behind the grate warmed the room and highlighted Ophelia’s supine form in glowing gold.
Her hair splayed out in a halo around the pillow, one arm dangled over the edge of the bed, and a loose shirt partially obscured the shape of her figure.
Even asleep she was astoundingly enchanting.
Beautiful and serene to the point of agony as I didn’t know if I had the self-restraint necessary to stop myself from touching her.
Heaving breaths dragged her scent into my lungs, goading me with her nearness. A shiver zipped down my spine and my clenched fists twitched at my sides. The effort of standing still was my personal torment. But she needed sleep before the world inevitably tipped under her feet.
I could give her that—that safety and security.
I shouldn’t have agreed to let her become my assistant. The logical part of my mind knew it was like setting a steak in front of a wolf, but I couldn’t resist her if I tried. And God help me, I had.
Those first few nights I’d stayed outside the window, telling myself I was only checking to make sure Hunter’s granddaughter was safe. But night by night I inched closer and closer until I was right outside the bay window. And tonight, I went to the front door like a man possessed.
The power she held over me was a torment.
Tension coiled in my bones and muscles, keeping me on edge for the hour I watched her sleep, luxuriating in learning the little sighs and expressions she made throughout her dreams. Ever since that first meeting my mind had been invested in thoughts of her and ways to keep her safe from Moloch’s apostles.
It had become a crucial task in my mind, turning her into an obsession without a cure.
I wouldn’t let the bastards have her.
No one could have what was mine.