Chapter 17 Sabrina
Sabrina
The room is too quiet.
Too clean.
Too not mine.
Shit. Where am I?
I wake up tangled in sheets that smell like cedar, spice, and danger, and immediately feel the urge to bolt.
Oh. My. God. I didn’t.
Only yes, I did.
And if the ache between my thighs is anything to go by, I did a damn good job, too.
My heart is racing, my limbs are sore in all the best ways, and my brain is screaming something between OMG, you just slept with your bodyguard and you just slept with your bodyguard are you absolutely insane, Sabrina Rosetto?
It’s Sunday morning.
Church morning.
Faculty lunch afterward.
And I’m not going.
I slide out of Theo’s enormous bed as quietly as I can, wincing when the sheet gets caught under his arm and tugs.
I don’t care. I need it.
Determined now, I pull it free and wrap it around myself, wincing as I step on a squeaky floorboard.
He still doesn’t stir.
Just keeps sleeping like a carved Greek statue, perfectly still and unfairly gorgeous.
I pad into the sleek, stone-tiled bathroom and shut the door softly behind me, exhaling like I just escaped a crime scene.
Leaning over the sink, I stare at my reflection.
My hair’s a mess.
There’s a bite mark on my collarbone.
And I’m glowing like someone who just had very, very satisfying sex.
Oh shit.
What the hell am I doing?
I was supposed to be staying out of trouble.
Just keeping my head down.
Avoiding relationship messes of any kind.
And trying to stay safe despite this shit my brother dragged me into like it’s his full-time job.
Instead, I’ve got a protective, emotionally intense man sleeping in the other room who just made me feel more cherished and desired in one night than I’ve ever felt in my entire life.
And I like it.
That’s the terrifying part.
Because what happens when he moves on?
You’ll be left alone and heartbroken, that’s what!
Double shit.
There’s a light knock on the door.
“Angel? You okay?”
His deep voice slides under the door and into my bones.
I panic.
“What? Um, yeah! Just going to the bathroom.”
I wince.
God, why did I say it like that?
Then, the worst possible sentence leaves my mouth.
“I’m not pooping, I mean. I’m just—never mind! Oh God. Kill me now.”
His chuckle—deep and rich and completely amused—rolls through the door like he’s enjoying this.
“For the record, everyone poops, Sabrina,” he says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “But I just wanted to tell you there’s a clean toothbrush in the top drawer. I usually shop in bulk.”
I blink at the closed door.
Bulk.
He shops in bulk. For toothbrushes.
For who?
Overnight guests? A harem? Random hook-ups with tragic self-esteem and a tendency to fall for men who save them?
Oh God.
Is that what I am?
Nerves punch me in the stomach. The good mood evaporates in a snap. I press my hand against the edge of the sink and try to breathe.
Don’t spiral, Sabrina.
Too late.
But really.
You knew what this was.
Didn’t you?
I open the drawer slowly.
There they are—a half dozen fresh, still-in-the-wrapper toothbrushes.
I take the lavender and white one. Soft bristles.
Like something you’d give to someone you want to keep comfortable.
Or someone you don’t expect to stay.
I unwrap it with shaking hands and brush my teeth.
Because honestly, if I’m going to have a complete emotional meltdown, I’d prefer to do it minty fresh.
The toothbrush rests in my palm like it holds the weight of a decision I’m not ready to make.
I already brushed my teeth. Twice.
The water’s still running in the sink because I haven’t figured out what I’m doing yet.
Am I stalling?
Yes.
Am I proud of that?
No.
But I’m in his bathroom.
His private bathroom.
And this isn’t some meaningless hotel hookup, no matter how hard I try to label it that way.
I spent the night in his bed.
I made noises that definitely weren’t in any of the books I’ve read.
I mean, I saw literal stars.
I saw him. All of him.
And he saw me.
Every roll, every scar, every inch of chubby, overthinking, no-makeup me.
And he still touched me like I was sacred. Like he couldn’t not touch me.
I lean forward, bracing my hands on the cool marble countertop, avoiding my own reflection. Avoiding the questions swirling inside me.
What the hell was last night?
Was it just sex?
Was it the beginning of something dangerous?
Was it real?
The door clicks.
I freeze.
The handle turns and opens without resistance.
“What are you doing?” I blurt out, turning sharply, heart hammering.
Theo steps inside. Naked. Unbothered.
Utterly, completely male.
His eyes rake over me with a heat that has no business being legal before coffee.
“You were taking a while,” he says like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, like we do this every Sunday morning. “I figured I’d check on you.”
I try not to gawk.
Fail. Miserably.
Did I already say he’s totally naked?
Like cover-of-a-romance-novel naked.
No towel. No shame.
Just glorious skin and muscles, black ink trailing down golden arms, and that devil-may-care confidence that should be annoying—but somehow makes me want to crawl up his body and kiss every part of him I missed last night.
And God, there’s a lot I missed.
He tilts his head, watching me with those dark, knowing eyes.
“You okay, Angel? See something you like?”
“I’m fine.” My voice squeaks. “Just brushing my teeth.”
To prove it, I pick up the toothbrush and hold it like Exhibit A.
“You sure?” he asks, his tone gentler now.
“Yes. No. I don’t know.” I sigh and wave him off. “I’m just going to shower and get home. Is that okay?”
“Yeah. That’s okay.”
I wait. He doesn’t move.
“Well, then why are you still here?” I ask, more irritated with myself than with him.
His mouth twitches.
“Because I’m coming with you.”
I blink. “What?”
He doesn’t answer.
He just closes the distance between us with predator grace, takes the toothbrush from my hand, and sets it down without breaking eye contact.
“I’m not letting you run out of here thinking last night was just sex,” he says. “It wasn’t.”
“I didn’t say that,” I whisper.
“You didn’t have to.”
He leans forward and kisses my forehead, then he takes my discarded toothbrush drops some more toothpaste on it and shoves it in his mouth.
My jaw drops as he continues to move past me, brushing his teeth, while he opens the shower door and turns the water on.
A second later, steam billows out, and he nods for me to go in while he returns to the sink to spit and rinse.
Like he owns the place.
Which, fine, he does. But still.
He discards the toothbrush, steps into the shower, under the spray and then turns to me, one brow raised, hand extended like an invitation I can’t quite refuse.
“Angel.”
I hesitate. Then I mutter, “This is crazy.”
“Yeah,” he agrees. “But it’s our kind of crazy.”
And God help me, I drop the sheet and step into the shower.