The Pawn (Endgame #1)(33)

“Because you want to own a virgin,” I say, repeating him.

He doesn’t answer, nudging a door open. I glance around to see heavy brocade curtains and a high bed in the middle of the room. Lavender flowers adorn the thick down comforter, setting off the pale yellow vertical stripes on the wall. Pretty.

“Too pretty for you,” I murmured.

“You’re probably right about that,” he says, sounding amused.

“I’m going to kill you.”

“Is that right?” he says, sounding less amused.

“With a sword.”

“And where are you going to get a sword?” He lays me down on sheets that feel outrageously cool against my heated skin. Then he pulls up the blanket. I think it’s going to be too hot, but once they’re on top of me, they feel just right.

“I haven’t figured that out,” I say with a sigh. It’s a puzzle, that’s for sure. “But I don’t want to kill you. I just don’t want to die.”

He’s silent a moment, and I peek one eye open at him. He’s looking at me with a strange expression. I would almost describe it as tender if he didn’t have the head of a bull.

“Give me the jacket,” he says gently.

Only then do I remember the jacket that’s wrapped around me. It has been ever since the auction. I guess it’s his way of claiming me, of marking me. So why does he want it back? I know he won the auction, but the jacket feels like my trophy.

“Do I have to?”

“You’ll be more comfortable.”

“Everything feels so good. You should have some of that moonshine.”

“I’ll think about it,” he says roughly. “The jacket?”

“Don’t look,” I warn him.

After a moment he turns and faces the door. Only then do I shrug out of the big suit jacket. God, his shoulders must be massive to fit this. And his biceps. God. I can see them through his shirt, bulging. It looks obscene. Like if there was a Playboy magazine spread open on the bed, his muscled forearms would be more explicit.

I put the jacket on top of the bedspread and snuggle back under the blanket, all the way up to my neck. This is the softest bed I’ve ever lain in. “Ready.”

He turns around and picks up the jacket. Then he stands there looking at the fabric in his hands as if he can’t quite figure something out. As if he can’t quite figure me out, even though I’m so simple. Simple girl, simple dreams. College, marriage, kids. A family—a real family, not just a dad who works through dinner most days. He’s the mystery.

I glance at the other side of the bed. “Are you going to sleep…you know? Over there?”

He looks at the empty space on the bed, his expression brooding. “No.”

That makes sense, because this can’t be his room. It’s way too pretty. Way too feminine. He probably sleeps somewhere with glass and sleek black lines. With a TV set into the wall and real fur on the bed. Maybe there are animal horns nailed to the wall.

“Avery,” he says, still holding the jacket like it’s something precious.

I blink as sleep overtakes me. “Yes?”

“Be careful. I’m more dangerous than you know.”

The slightest awareness creeps back into me, along with a cold feeling. I shiver beneath the down blanket. I can sense how dangerous he is, but the knowledge doesn’t help me. I’m trapped here. I’m his. “Did you hurt my dad?”

“He deserved everything I did to him.”

My fists clench beneath the covers. “Why are you telling me this?”

“Because I don’t want you to die either.”

He looks at me for another moment before turning to leave. The lights go dark, and my mind blurs. I know this is important, that he told me something important, but the moonshine turned my brain to mush. Sleep is inky and dark, thick as it swallows me whole.

Be careful, he said, but even as I drift away, I can’t remember why.





Chapter Seventeen





The next morning I wake up with a headache from hell. On shaking legs I stumble across the plush carpet, wearing only a white lace thong to prove anything happened last night. I don’t have any energy for modesty, though, and the room is empty anyway. Oh thank God, there’s a brand-new toothbrush on the counter. After I’ve brushed my teeth and washed my face, I feel maybe ten percent more human. Enough that I can peek back into the room. Still empty.

A patch of white on the dresser catches my eye. I find a note scrawled with the phone number for the place handling my father’s nurses. I recognize the name of one of the high-end private agencies from when I called around.

I wasn’t able to afford them.

On the chair beside the dresser sits my purse. I dig inside and find my phone. First things first, I dial the number. As soon as I tell them my name, they transfer me immediately to a Mr. Stewart, the director of the facility. I never got past the front-desk girl before.

“We have our absolute best nurses working with him,” he assures me. “Over thirty years of experience between them, excellent references. The utmost discretion, of course.”

“Thank you,” I say, my voice faint.

“They’re in direct communication with his doctor—we got your consent form, of course. To make sure he remains comfortable during your brief sojourn.”