I awake with a start, blankets clutched in trembling hands as I lurch upright in bed. The first hint of daylight streams through the windows, promising another beautiful day free of rain. Like the morning before, the other side of the bed is empty, though his pillow has a noticeable imprint, indicating Miles slept beside me last night.
He must have come in after I fell asleep, and I find it bewildering that he didn’t wake me. The door stands open, as it did yesterday, and I breathe a sigh of relief. After my behavior last night, no matter how justified, I expected him to lock me in for the day.
I hurry through my morning routine in the bathroom, noting the first aid kit on the counter. A glance at the trashcan reveals bloody gauze.
What in the world happened last night?
There’s only one way to find out, and that involves walking through the door and facing Miles. I stare at the sheet with longing but discard the idea, not wanting a repeat of yesterday morning. Somehow, we’ll have to find a slice of common ground for the rest of the month, and I already took my bold stand at dinner.
Now my protective instincts tell me it’s time for a little diplomacy.
A search of the shared living areas, kitchen, and dining room reveals empty spaces. He’s not in the gym or his study, either. Maybe he went for his morning run. The sky brightens to a baby blue by the time I return to the kitchen to make a quick bite to eat. After warming a skillet on the stove, I crack four eggs open over the pan. They sizzle while I pop bread into the toaster. It’s not the feast Miles made yesterday, but it’s a peace offering, nonetheless, and it’ll go a long way toward easing the dull hunger pangs in my belly.
Ten minutes later, I carry two plates to the dining room and take a seat. I’m halfway through my breakfast when footsteps sound from the other room. Miles appears in the archway, sweat dripping down his temples as he unzips a grey hoodie.
I gape at him, and it’s not his casual appearance that slackens my jaw. His left eye is swollen, horrendous bruising discoloring the bridge of his nose, and that wide mouth—so often home to a spectrum of smiles—turns down at the corners, bottom lip abused like the rest of his face.
“You didn’t rinse your dishes,” he says, a flat and emotionless tone underlying the criticism.
“I’m sorry.” Trying not to show my shock at his busted-up face, I keep my attention on his chest. “I’ll do better next time.”
“See that you do.” As his gaze lands on the second plate, his expression softens. “I’ll join you after I clean up.” Turning on his heel, he disappears the way he came, and I set my fork down, too sick to eat more.
Someone did that to him. Was it Liam? My brother? The obvious answer is Sebastian, especially after the fury I witnessed in his mannerisms last night.
Miles returns minutes later, his blond hair combed back from showering. A citrus clean scent wafts off his naked body as he takes a seat at the head of the table. By now, the meager offering I cooked is cold, but he digs in without complaint, and that surprises me.
“Are you finished eating?” He gestures toward my abandoned plate of half-eaten eggs and toast.
I push the food away by a couple of inches. “I’m full.”
He nods, as if he understands, then returns to chewing and swallowing. But his mouth is a distraction, with that cut slashing through his bottom lip, and my curiosity gets the best of me.
“What happened to your face?”
“I went for a run last night to clear my head, and somehow, I ran nose-first into a pissed-off fist.”
Laughter bursts free, and I cover my mouth, mortified. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be.” The start of a smile pulls at his lips. “In the light of day, it’s easier to find humor in it.”
“Who did the pissed-off fist belong to?”
He raises a brow. “I’ll give you one guess.”
“Sebastian did this to you?”
“Can’t fault a man for defending a queen’s honor.” Apparently finished with breakfast, he leans back in his chair. “How about you and I call a truce?”
“A truce?”
“Yes. I’d rather not spend the entire month fighting with you. Believe it or not, I’d rather enjoy your company.”
“What will this truce involve?”
“If you agree to abide by the nudity rule while in the house, I won’t publicly humiliate you again.”
“That’s your idea of a truce?” I tilt my head, brow raised with incredulity. “What part of that benefits me?”
“You benefit from my mercy. If you obey me, I’ll reward you. I understand you have a daily routine in your studio you’d like to continue?”
I’m tempted to lie and claim my work is just a hobby—a pastime that isn’t my obsession and escape from the house of whatever man I’m obligated to for the month. But instinct warns he’d see through the lie.
“I’m in the middle of preparing for the Fashion Festival this fall.”
He nods, as if he’s already been debriefed on my daily activities. It would be ludicrous to think otherwise. For a group of men that spend so much time alone and isolated within their own houses, they have an uncanny ability to operate in sync.
“Then you should continue that work,” he says.
“Thank you.”
He dips his head in a display of graceful acknowledgement. “It’s still a privilege, my queen. An exchange, if you will.”
“An exchange for what?”
Letting several moments pass, he rubs his chin as he regards me. “For your cooperation.”
I gesture to my naked body. “In case you hadn’t noticed, I left the sheet in the bedroom.”
“I noticed, and I appreciate your obedience.”
“What more do you want?” As soon as the question leaves my mouth, I want to kick myself for the implied invitation.
He smiles, interpreting my frustrated slip-up as I feared he would. “I want permission to touch you.”
I shift, crossing my legs even though he can’t see them from his position at the table. It takes everything in me not to palm my breasts. “I thought you didn’t need my permission.”
“Intimacy is only pure when consent is given. We each have a duty here, Novalee. Yours is to obey. Mine rests on earning your consent.”
“What happens if I don’t give it?”
“Then you lose studio time.”
“How is that fair?”
“Life is messy and unfair. Those are my terms.”
“You’re manipulating me, Mr. Sinclair, and resorting to blackmail. How is that consent?”
“You still have a choice. It’s up to you to decide.” He stands, picking up his plate and stacking mine on top. “Take the week to think about it. I expect an answer by my birthday.”
“When’s your birthday?”
“Six days from now.” He exits the kitchen, and my last vestige of hope for an uncomplicated month in the House of Virgo leaves with him.