Chapter 11
Eleven
Blair
For someone who is so obsessed with security, it’s weird that Satan didn’t think to lock his door.
Maybe he believed the lack of anything or anyone for miles around meant the chances of break-ins were low, and perhaps that I—the estate’s only other full-time resident—wouldn’t have the audacity to go snooping through his things.
If that’s the case, he was wrong.
I’m utterly delighted with myself as I stroll down the gravel drive toward Damien Mallory’s inner sanctum. I’d been careful, first waiting to make sure he was occupied with yet another clipboard-wielding man in a jumpsuit, before hurrying out the back door on my mission.
There were holes in this plan, unfortunately, and the biggest of them was that I hadn’t been able to find a key to the back cottage anywhere.
After cursing my parents for their lack of hands-on landlording, I decided to wing it, and the fates must have thought my determination should be rewarded with an unlocked door.
Now that I’ve gained entry with practically no effort, my top priority is understanding the enemy, so I might use my ill-gained knowledge to destroy him.
“How irresponsible can you get, leaving your door unlocked, princess?” I ask the open air in a deep-voiced imitation of Mallory, pausing in the little entryway with my hands on my hips, looking around. “Are you an idiot, princess?”
Admittedly, I’m a little more wary now that I’m actually standing here.
He wouldn’t actually hurt me, but the truth is, I have absolutely no idea how His Royal Evilness would react to finding me here.
Certainly, he wouldn’t pour me a cup of tea or roll out the welcome mat.
In all likelihood, he would be furious, and it would make our already combative relationship about ten times worse.
I was horribly bored at the house, though, so I might as well go through with it.
Humming cheerfully to myself, I venture further into the cottage, eyeing the scrupulously clean space with interest. Mallory hasn’t bothered to do much in the way of decoration—not a single moat of brimstone or burning cross to be seen—but there are a few personal belongings left out, and he’s dressed the bed in plain white linens.
The zip-up I’ve seen him wear a few times is hanging on the old wooden hook beside the door, and his running shoes are resting beneath them, with those little odor-reducing balls inside.
I cross the room and pull open the fridge, leaning down to examine its contents. Gross. Who eats this many vegetables when nobody is around? Disappointed, I turn, examining the room more pragmatically.
If I were a bossy, pompous, fart face, where would I hide something?
My eyes fall upon the bedside table, and I stride across the cottage to pull open the drawer. The only contents, a bottle of lotion and half-used pack of tissues, make me laugh. Even if the objects immediately inspire a very enjoyable fantasy of Mallory using them.
God, he’s so hot. It’s such a shame about the personality.
Pointedly ignoring the heat that’s settled in my core at the mental image of the worst person in the world masturbating, I carry on.
His clothes are all obsessively neat and folded in the drawers, and the only books on the shelf are a collection of old mystery novels that may or may not be left from the cottage’s last inhabitant.
Everything about the space is impersonal and sparse, like Mallory isn’t bothered with creature comforts or sentimentality.
I poke through a few more cabinets and flip open a notebook left out on the table—which is filled entirely with notes about work—but nothing at all stands out to me as potential blackmail material.
Still, determined to make the most of this opportunity, I head for the last unexplored space: the bathroom.
Like the rest of the cottage, there isn’t a single thing out of place, though I do learn more here.
Satan must have some level of vanity, because he actually bothers to moisturize—a rarity among men—and uses nearly as many hair products as I do.
Not that his grooming habits are particularly useful to me.
I pretend I don’t enjoy the way the room smells, fresh and masculine, clean without being sterile.
Huffing, I pull the shower curtain closed again and turn my attention to the glass-fronted medicine cabinet hanging above the pedestal sink. Inside, there is a disappointing lack of boner pills or anti-psychotics, but on the top shelf, the edge of something gold glimmers just out of my view.
Reaching up, I close my fingers around the cold metal and take it down. A gold wristwatch.
For a moment, I stare at it, struggling to pinpoint why the hair has lifted on my arms, and my heart is beating faster than it was a moment ago.
The watch is nice… very nice. Its strap is made of a fine, polished leather that has gone buttery and soft with age. The face, which is set into a gold frame, is alive and ticking, its tiny dials moving in an elegant choreography around a familiar logo at the very center.
This isn’t an ordinary watch. It was made by one of the most well-known luxury makers in the world and would undoubtedly fetch tens of thousands of dollars at auction. It’s the sort of piece my father, brother, or future brother-in-law would wear, an heirloom dripping in old money.
Swallowing, I drag my finger over the crystal face, captivated by the tiny mechanical movements beneath its surface.
I may be wrong, but I don’t think this is the type of watch that uses a battery.
It needs to be reset every single day, and I can’t imagine why Satan would bother, as I’ve only ever seen him wearing his fitness tracker.
Slowly, I turn it over to check, and my breath catches as I make out the coat of arms engraved into the back metal plate.
A coat of arms that would be instantly recognizable to any native Stellander, because it belongs to our royal family.
With difficulty, I swallow and put it back where I found it. Closing the medicine cabinet with no further exploration, I stare at my pale, shocked expression in the mirror.
Why on Earth would a royal guard have something like that?
If he’d stolen it—which is the most logical explanation—surely he would have dispensed with the thing at the earliest possible opportunity. It wouldn’t be difficult to have that engraving buffed out, reducing it from royal heirloom to vintage luxury showpiece.
Mallory didn’t get rid of it, though. He kept it in his bathroom cabinet and appears to have made a habit of setting the time every day, despite never wearing it.
That doesn’t suggest a former employee of the royal family looking to make some quick money; it suggests the item is precious to him. Sentimental.
I’m not sure how much time has passed since I got here, but it seems unwise to linger for too long.
Deciding I’ve seen enough, I flip the lights off in the bathroom and step out into the main living area, surveying the space to ensure I haven’t left any indication I was here. All is as I found it—sparse, boring, and devoid of any personality—so, satisfied, I start toward the door.
Which is when I hear it.
Heavy footfalls outside on the wooden porch.
Holy ever-loving shit.
My heart rockets into my throat, and I turn, diving back into the dark bathroom. The shower curtain is still swaying gently from me hurrying behind it, when I hear the sound of the cottage’s door opening and closing.
I clap my hand over my nose and mouth, conscious of how loud my breathing sounds in the dimly lit, enclosed space, as footsteps move in the direction of the kitchen. A faucet is turned on and off, and something hard is set down on a wooden surface.
Every nerve in my body is lit up, buzzing with awareness of my surroundings as I listen to him walking around just one room over, oblivious to my presence.
The water runs again, longer, followed by the distinct sound of a zipper being pulled down, and the rustle of fabric being set aside.
Footsteps draw closer, until he’s in the bathroom, standing just feet away from me with only a flimsy plastic barrier separating him from the intruder in his home. The medicine cabinet opens and then, after a long moment, closes.
Silence falls, and my heart is slamming so hard against my ribcage that I swear he must be able to hear it. Squeezing my eyes shut, I will my pulse to slow, my lungs burning with lack of oxygen because I don’t even dare to breathe right now.
Then, Mallory’s voice comes, quiet and far too controlled. “Did you find what you were looking for, princess?”
It’s all I can do to stop myself from squealing as the shower curtain is yanked back and light floods the bathroom, sudden and blinding.
I blink rapidly, as I find myself staring at Mallory, his body blocking the narrow exit to the shower.
He’s not wearing the jacket I saw him in earlier, and his sleeves are rolled up over his corded forearms, looking infuriatingly composed, given the circumstances.
One dark brow lifts, as if he’s caught a child with her hand in the biscuit tin rather than a trespasser in his home.
I recover my bravado and lift my chin, glaring right back at him. “You should probably consider locking your door, Satan.”
His inky gaze drops—slow and deliberate—taking me in, before lifting back to my eyes, darker and sharper than before. “You should probably consider staying out of places you don’t belong.”
The words settle heavily between us.
“It’s my property. I can go where I like on it.”
Mallory lifts a hand to grip the edge of the shower harder, the muscles in his forearm standing out as he boxes me in.
We’re close enough now that I can smell him, and I swallow, wishing I could ignore the hot, tight feeling which has settled low in my belly.
The one asking—no, begging—for whatever consequences he sees fit to deliver.
“It’s your father’s property, not yours,” he murmurs, every word still infuriatingly calm. “Boundaries are important, Blair. You need to learn to respect them. For your own good.”
This should not be turning me on, but with every second that passes, the hot ball of desire in the pit of my stomach grows a little heavier and a little harder to ignore.
My tongue darts out, wetting my lips, and his eyes track the movement, lingering too long. “And is this typically how you enforce personal boundaries?” I ask, my voice sweet and coy. “Shower imprisonment?”
His mouth flattens into a hard line. “No,” he admits. “But in this case, the punishment fits the crime, wouldn’t you say?”
No. Not really. As a traitorous, undeniable slickness spreads over my panties, and I have to remind myself not to squirm, I can think of better ways for him to punish me for this particular crime.
I exhale, attempting to regather my scrambled thoughts. “One might say the same about your unlocked door. Very careless, for a man in your profession. I’m surprised at you.”
A tendon in Mallory’s neck leaps as he braces a hand on the tile wall beside my head and leans forward, reducing the distance between us to inches. “I never want to see you in here again,” he murmurs, the words a low, dangerous purr. “And I promise you, I won’t be so patient a second time.”
For a moment, I think he’s actually going to do something. I’m ready for it, my entire body poised at the edge of a cliff, waiting desperately for the fall. All I see is him, all I smell is him, and every cell in my body is begging me to give in.
Never in my memory can I recall wanting a man as deeply as I want him.
But then, something hardens in Satan’s handsomely carved features, and it’s all I can do to stop myself from crying out in disappointment when he leans away.
Stepping to the side, he fixes me with that same intensely irritated look I’ve come to associate with him, the one which makes me feel like an unimportant and unappealing bug stuck to his windshield
“Get out.”
The two words are enough to get me moving.
As I brush past him, my shoulder grazes his chest, a brief, accidental contact.
He inhales once, sharp and contained, and the sound sends a thrill through me.
I don’t stop, though. I keep moving toward the door of the cottage and only pause to look back when my hand is resting on the cold knob.
Mallory is standing in the bathroom doorway, his arms folded over that very impressive chest. “I mean it, princess. Don’t come back.”
With a rush of daring, I allow myself to smile, full and wild and alive for the first time in weeks. “What if you invite me?”
His features harden. “I won’t.” There is no doubt in the words, like he still believes wholly in the strength of his self-control, even after I saw it splintering before my eyes only a moment ago.
Still smiling, I open the front door and step outside, calling back over my shoulder, “We’ll see!”