Chapter 35
Thirty-Five
Wrapped in a towel, I peek up and down the hall before tiptoeing out of the bathroom and heading down to the room at the top of the stairs where York is. My room now, for all intents and purposes, but historically it was my grandparents’ room.
I make it there undetected in my towel and close the door behind me.
The lights are out, and the curtains drawn, but it’s midday, so it isn’t really dark.
York’s chest rises and falls quietly, and I stop at the side of the bed, placing my hand on his chest. The rhythmic thump of his heart against my fingertips is grounding, and I absorb it for a few seconds before lifting my hand to his brow.
It’s dry and warm, not hot. So far, no obvious signs of infection, but I’ll need to check his bandage in a few hours and change it.
“You care about him.” William’s voice is just above a whisper behind me.
I freeze and let my eyes drift shut, knowing he’s probably tucked into the corner of the room. It never even crossed my mind that he might have slipped in here. Logically, I know he’s just checking on his friend, but this is my space. It feels like an intrusion, especially since York is here.
“Yes,” I say, turning to face him. “He’s taken care of me repeatedly when he didn’t have to. He took care of me after you.”
“Mm.” He nods slowly, leaning back in the wooden chair. “It’s important to care for your valuables.”
That shouldn’t sting so much. York feels strongly for me, and I should discourage it far more than I have, but I’ve been confused by the things I feel for him too.
Far too often, I’ve entertained the possibility of us.
More than once though, I considered that it was exactly what William just posited .
. . that he was trying to keep me alive because he needed me that way.
Because I’m most valuable to him breathing.
But in the moments themselves, when it was just us, there was real concern for my well-being, real rage that I was hurt to begin with . . . His compassion was real. It wouldn’t be if he didn’t really care in some way.
How dare William try to make me believe otherwise.
“You’re a miserable prick.” I shake my head. “Jealous.”
“Jealous?” He gets to his feet and crosses toward me. I grip the towel around my chest tightly, and he grins in the dimly lit room. “Of what?” He leans in close, and I can hear him scent my hair right before he kisses my temple and walks out of the room.
My eyes sting, and my throat tightens. Fuck, I don’t understand what’s going on with him.
Between feeling whatever I feel for York and William’s ridiculous rollercoaster of behavior that’s leaving me completely fucking lost .
. . I might have a breakdown. One second, he’s threatening to kill me, the next he’s hitting on me.
Sometimes it’s an insult, other times just a look, a subtle flirtation, a broad smile, a laugh, the way he says my name .
. . the way he looks at me. And then he’s degrading me again, and everything begins feeling threatening like it did in the beginning.
These men are stressing me out.
I climb onto the other side of the bed and snuggle into York’s good shoulder. He stirs, and I put my hand on his chest, which he covers with his own silently. The exhaustion from earlier settles back in, and I give into it.
***
The room is pitch black when my eyes open next.
It’s late in the year so . . . it could be dinner, or it could be midnight.
I get up and slide from the bed, undoing the towel and rooting through the drawers of old clothing in the dark.
Feeling a pair of tights, I pull them out and tug them on and then grab a sweater and pull it overhead as well.
I take a pair of wool socks from the top drawer. Sitting in the same chair William occupied a short time ago, I slip them on. The house feels chilly, so I put an extra blanket over York before I leave, closing the door behind me.
The house is heated electrically, but I always keep it low. Thankfully the fireplace is in good working order, so I head down the stairs intent on getting it going. When I round the corner to the living room, I find William kneeling in front of it, blowing on some embers beneath a bit of kindling.
Of course.
“Did everyone eat?” I ask, rubbing my arm against the chill in the air.
“Carter and August went into town to pick something up.” He blows gently again. “They’ll be back shortly.”
“What time is it?”
“Around seven.”
The kindling catches, and he sets a bit more on it, nursing the small flames until they grow enough to warrant a log. I stare into the firelight as he works, losing all sense of everything.
“Cold?” He looks over his shoulder, and I realize I have my arms wrapped around myself.
“I’m fine.” I shake my head and move across the room, sitting on the old, worn-in couch.
Getting up from his knees, he puts another log on the fire and walks over to the couch and pulls the quilt off the back. He shakes it out and drapes it over my legs before dropping down next to me.
I avoid his eyes as I wrap my fingers around the edge of it. “Thanks.”
He leaves his arm stretched out across the back of the couch behind me, and I pull my knees up. The whole side of my body facing him tingles, and I can’t tell if it’s an attraction thing or a warning.
“Tell me something . . .” He rubs a palm against his thigh.
“What?”
“Why were you singing on the radio?”
I scrunch my face up. Of all the things he could ask . . . “Um, I forgot the mic was hot. I do it when I feel stressed, sometimes just to pass time . . . then you got annoyed, so I got committed.”
He laughs, and I smile inwardly. “I’ve been annoyed since I met you.”
The inward smile fizzles, and I stare at the fire. “Why?”
“Because I know what you are, and it bothers me.”
“You don’t know a thing about me.” I take a slow, deep breath.
“You hate us because we’re convincing enough that even you fell for it.
” I pull my knees up and rest my cheek on them to regard him.
“And now you want to . . . hate-fuck me or something like that. I just can’t tell if it’s for the sake of it or because you think York is fucking me, and therefore you feel . . . entitled.”
“Is he fucking you?”
“Not right now.” I turn my face toward the fire and stare off. “You can’t be surprised about that though. I am what I am, right? Besides, he’s a good man, and I’m smart enough not to make the same argument for you.”
“You don’t know him. York can be the best of us, and the worst,” he says softly.
“Mm . . . he might be a devil in your eyes, but he’s not in mine.”
“And what does it take to win the elusive Tripoli over?” His fingers sift through my hair, and my eyes drift closed. “That is quite the recommendation after all . . . The devil himself couldn’t ask for better PR.”
“The devil would know, wouldn’t he?” I level the accusation as I look at him again.
He smiles broadly at the insinuation and looks off to the fire.
“You’re right. I do want to hate-fuck you.
And I want it to be spectacular and as violent as I know you're capable of. I want to give you all the things I know you want from me, from him . . . and I want you to hate me while I’m doing it and afterward.
” He tucks my hair behind my ear. “And . . . maybe sometime in the future I’d want to do it again. ”
“What you’re looking for is a prostitute. Go get one.”
“I’ve got one right here.”
My eyes close like weights are attached. I can’t even begin to manage the rage that floods my system. Despite knowing I’m being goaded, my arm rockets out, and I backhand him across the jaw. His head snaps to the side, but he doesn’t waste any time spearing me with his shoulder.
We tumble to the floor from the couch, and I clip him in the cheek with the back of my head before he tosses me over and jerks me under his frame.
He shifts his thigh as I bring my knee up into his groin, but he pins my leg out to the side, dodging the hit.
It isn’t long before the only thing free is my head, and I’m panting, glaring at him as he settles his weight against me, stiff cock included.
“This isn’t even close to your best,” he pants out gently and sinks his face into my sweater between my breasts, taking a deep breath. “Not even close. I watched you today, just like you wanted . . . You aren’t this helpless.”
I hate that he knows that. I hate that he knows more about me in a day than York has puzzled out in a week. He shifts forward, dragging his hardened length up between my legs, and my whole body vibrates in response. When his lips brush mine, I crack my head into his eye socket.
Cursing, he rears back, and I bring my leg up, nailing him in the balls. Winded and groaning, he tips forward, and I punch him in the jaw for good measure. The crack of the bone against my knuckles sends a searing pain through my hand, but I savor it and shove him over.
“That wasn’t even close to my fucking best either.” I get to my feet.
From the flat of his back, the laugh is pained but a laugh, nonetheless. “That’s my girl.”
“Don’t call me that.” I point at him. “Asshole.”
“You can pretend you don’t like it all you want.
” He shakes his head and groans softly as he props himself up on his elbow.
“I see it in your eyes every time I come at you . . . every time I speak. You fucking love it.” Slowly, he gains his feet and rubs his jaw.
“Fuck,” he groans. “I think I’m even harder now. ”
My eyes widen, and he smiles deviously. My heart thuds, and I scramble, darting out of the room. I can hear his footfalls behind me, making my heartbeat skyrocket. I fucking hate being chased in confined spaces. I hate it. It makes me . . . panic.
I toss a few chairs over in the dining room as I dash through the other door to the kitchen and run down the length of it to the mudroom, where I slam into the wall before turning to grab the door.