25. Sienna
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
SIENNA
Iwoke to the sound of someone moving. I opened my eyes to see Jamison standing near the open bathroom, shirt unbuttoned, belt loose, black trousers riding low on his hips.
He was turned slightly away, one hand at his waist, the other dragging the belt through. The open-plan bedroom gave him nowhere to hide.
The waistband of his trousers sat beneath the carved line of his stomach, and the belt hung open. I looked at the tattoos running down his ribs and disappearing beneath his shirt.
He turned his head.
I froze.
Jamison Crow smiled.
Smugly.
“Oh,” he said, voice still rough. “Good morning to you too, baby.”
Heat rushed straight into my face.
I pulled the blanket higher, which was ridiculous because he had already seen more of me last night than any blanket could undo. “I was asleep.”
“You’re doing excellent work for someone unconscious.”
“I woke up because you were making noise.”
“My belt offended you?”
“No.”
“Interested you?”
My cheeks burned hotter. “You are impossible.”
His smile widened by the smallest degree, which somehow made everything worse.
I sat up against the pillows and tried to look anywhere except his waist. The bed was still warm from both of us, the sheets twisted from the night, my hair ribbon loose against my neck. My sleep top had slipped slightly off one shoulder. I fixed it quickly.
Jamison noticed that too.
“Why are you awake?” I asked, because questions felt safer than being caught looking at him again.
He fastened his belt with that same maddening calm. “I have an appointment.”
That was when I saw the dresser. More specifically, what sat on it. A black shoulder holster.
Two pistols.
A knife in a sheath.
A narrow case with ammunition arranged so neatly it looked ceremonial.
“Why are there guns?”
Jamison slipped one arm through the holster, then the other, before he pulled the shirt into place. I watched the pistol settle beneath his left arm.
My stomach tightened.
“Where are you going?”
“The morning hunt.”
I stared at him.
“The hunt,” I repeated.
“Yes.”
“With my father?”
“And your other male relatives.”
“In the forest?”
“That is where people keep hunts, unless Bellemeres have developed an indoor version to make tradition more unbearable.”
I pushed the blanket down and sat straighter. “Those are not hunting guns.”
His expression filled with approval in a way that made my pulse stumble.
“Good girl.”
The praise slid through me before I could stop it. My face warmed again, but this time it was different from embarrassment.
“I mean it,” I said quickly. “Those are handguns. That knife is not for pheasants.”
“No bird has ever been worth this much preparation.”
“Then why are you taking them?”
“Because I wear guns.”
“To a retreat?”
“To breakfast. To meetings. To casinos. To charity events with terrible floral choices. To car rides. To every place where men with grudges and poor impulse control might decide my death would improve their quarter.”
“That cannot be necessary.”
“It became necessary when I was seventeen.” Jamison adjusted the holster, then reached for the second weapon. “I have worn guns every day since my parents were murdered. I take them off for bed. That is the concession.”
His voice had been casual, almost bored, while his hands moved with perfect habit.
I looked at him across the dawn-lit room and remembered what Crow history felt like whenever anyone spoke it aloud. Murdered parents. A city that turned boys into weapons and then applauded the damage. Seventeen.
Armed every day since. Only unarmed in bed.
In bed beside me.
A strange, fragile feeling opened in my chest.
“You weren’t armed last night,” I said softly.
His eyes flicked to mine.
“No.”
“You slept beside me.”
“Yes.”
Without weapons. The thought sat between us, intimate in a way I did not know how to carry.
Jamison reached for his shirt buttons. “Don’t look at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like I’ve done something noble.”
“You took your guns off.”
“I got into bed.”
“With me.”
His hands paused.
My voice had come out quieter than I meant it to. Something closer to awe, which was embarrassing because he was simply a man who had slept without a pistol under his pillow.
Except Jamison was not simply anything.
His mouth curved, but the smugness was gentler this time. “Yes, baby. With you.”
My face heated again, and I looked down at the blanket because my heart had started doing foolish things in my chest.
Then I remembered the guns.
The forest.
My father.
I looked up sharply. “You cannot go.”
“I can.”
“No, you truly cannot.”
He slid the second weapon into place. “Watch me.”
“You hate hunting.”
“I love hunting.”
My mouth opened.
He looked at me as if amused by my horror. “I hate hunting animals.” He finished buttoning his shirt with one hand. “Crows hunt people.”
I pressed my lips together. “You cannot go into the forest armed with my father.”
“Why?”
“Because my father is very irritating.”
Jamison’s brows lifted.
“And?” he prompted.
“And you are very armed.” I sat higher, hair falling over one shoulder, sleep forgotten completely.
“My father speaks as if everything is a lesson. He calls things tradition when he means control. Julian will stand there translating him into business language. Adrian will look angry because that is simply his resting personality. Uncle Theo drinks before nine and pretends he can identify birds by wing sounds. It will annoy you.”
“It sounds as though they need me there.”
“No, they need supervision far away from you.”
His mouth twitched. “Worried I’ll corrupt the hunt?”
“You brought people-guns.”
“I brought regular guns. Your family brought long guns and tweed. Argue with them.”
“They are hunting.”
“So am I.”
“People,” I said, flatly.
His smile came back, faint and sinful. “You do listen.”
I grabbed a pillow and hugged it to my chest. “You’re impossible.”
“You keep saying that. I’ve decided it means handsome.”
“It does not.”
Jamison looked devastating in the morning light, dressed in black. His hair had fallen forward over his forehead. His eyes kept finding me in the bed as if leaving the room had become more difficult than getting dressed for danger.
“You haven’t said why you’re going,” I said.
“I told you. Hunt.”
“No. You’re going because of something else.”
His hands stilled over his cufflink.
I noticed.
He noticed me noticing. For a moment, we looked at each other across the room.
“I need to speak with your father,” he said.
My stomach tightened. “About Harlan business? Is that why you are here?”
He crossed toward the bed. The mattress dipped as he sat on the edge near my knees.
“I came for you.”
My fingers tightened on the pillow. Jamison watched the movement and looked far too pleased with it.
“I have business with your father,” he said. “That is true. I would still rather be in bed with you than walking through a damp forest listening to Bellemere men discuss birds.”
I looked down because my face could no longer be trusted.
His amusement faded a little.
Yesterday he had arrived and turned my entire sense of him sideways. Kindness from Jamison felt like stepping onto a frozen lake and hearing the surface hold.
“You’re being nice,” I said, quieter. “And you keep making promises.”
“I keep meaning them.” He stared at me, then seemed to realize he had said something almost too honest and handled it by becoming smug again.
“Tomorrow,” he said, “we sleep in.”
“What?”
“Tomorrow morning. No Bellemere breakfast at dawn. We sleep in.”
Tomorrow sounded like something men said when they needed to make leaving feel kinder.
I forced a smile. “That sounds nice.”
His eyes narrowed. “You don’t believe me.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to.”
I hugged the pillow tighter. “Will you come back after the hunt?” I continued because if I stopped now, I would sound more afraid than I wanted.
“Or are you leaving once business is sorted? Because if you are, I understand. You probably have things in Harlan, and this retreat is…” I looked toward the window, toward the blurred trees beyond the glass. “A lot.”
His face changed as I spoke.
“You think I’m leaving.”
“I think you came for business with Father.”
“I said I came for you.”
“You also said you have business.”
“I can do both.”
“Yes, but once the business is done—”
“Sienna.”
I stopped.
He leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, attention fixed entirely on me. It was overwhelming, being looked at by him like that. For years, I had wanted him to look at me. Now that he did, I had no idea where to put myself.
“I’m coming back after the hunt,” he said. “I’m taking you to estate breakfast. I’m attending whatever ghastly thing your family has planned after breakfast. Then I’m coming back here with you. Tonight I’m sleeping in this bed. Tomorrow we are sleeping in.”
My throat tightened.
I looked at the line of his jacket, at the hidden holster.
“Please don’t hurt my family,” I whispered. “I know they’re difficult. But they’re still my family.”
Jamison stared at me.
For one second, I worried I had offended him. Or worse, challenged him in a way that made the promise impossible.
Then he reached for my hand.
Slowly.
Giving me time to pull back.
I didn’t.
His fingers closed around mine.
“I won’t hurt your family.”
“You promise?”
“I promise.”
“Even if Father is very irritating?”
A faint smile touched his mouth. “Even then.”
“Even if Uncle Theo drinks and calls you young man?”
His eyes darkened. “He should reconsider that.”
“Jamison.”
“No injury. I promise.”
Jamison looked pleased in that arrogant way of his. He lifted my hand and pressed his mouth to my knuckles.
“I’ll behave,” he said against my skin.
“I don’t believe you.”
“You shouldn’t. But I’ll behave where it matters.” His thumb moved once over my fingers before he released me.
Jamison stood. He took his jacket from the chair, slid it on, and adjusted the cuffs. The guns disappeared beneath tailored black fabric, though now that I knew they were there, I could not unsee them. He looked less like a guest at a family retreat and more like a bad omen.
At the stairs, he paused and looked back.
I was still sitting in bed with the pillow clutched against me like armour.
His eyes moved over me. Smugness came back. “Stop looking at me like that.”
“I’m not looking at you like anything.”
“You were checking me out again.”
“I was assessing the weapons.”
“Through my trousers?”
My mouth fell open. “Jamison.”
His smile turned wicked. I threw the pillow at him. He caught it easily with one hand. He looked down at the pillow, then back at me with such absolute male satisfaction that I regretted giving him a physical symbol of my defeat.
“Careful, baby. Throwing bedding at armed men before breakfast can escalate.”
“You promised not to hurt my family, not me.”
His gaze heated. “I would never hurt you.”
The words came without flirtation. A promise made from somewhere darker than tenderness.
He crossed back to the bed with the pillow in hand, set it beside me, then leaned down. His palm came to the side of my face, fingers warm against my hairline.
“I’m sorry for waking you.”
The apology landed softly because he didn’t make it dramatic.
“You didn’t,” I whispered.
His brow lifted.
“You did,” I corrected. “But I’m glad.”
That pleased him too much.
I saw it.
The tiny shift in his face. The ego catching fire. The possessive satisfaction he did not bother hiding from me.
“Dangerous answer,” he murmured.
Before I could ask why, he bent and kissed my forehead. His lips touched the center of my forehead, just above my brows. My eyes closed without permission.
Then he drew back.
“I’ll be back for breakfast.”
I opened my eyes. “Estate breakfast.”
“Sadly, yes.”
He straightened, picked up his gloves from the dresser, and headed for the stairs. Halfway down, his voice carried back up.
“Do not unlock the door after me.”
“There are estate guards.”
“My guards are better. Which are also outside. In case my fiancé decides to unlock the door.”
Despite everything, I smiled.
He saw it before he disappeared fully down the stairs. That smug curve touched his mouth again, and then he was gone.
I listened to him cross the lounge below. Reeves’s voice murmured something low. Jamison answered with a tone that sounded deeply displeased before the door opened.
The door closed.
A lock clicked.
Then another.