Page 136 of Freed
Her throat works.
I lower my mouth to hers, not kissing her yet. Just letting her feel the words.
“But if he thinks he’s taking you from me,” I whisper, “he’s going to learn how badly I behave when someone touches what I love.”
Elizabeth goes completely still.
So do I.
Because I didn’t mean to say that last word. Not like that. Not yet. Maybe not ever. But there it is, breathing between us. Alive. Damning…
Her fingers tighten in my hair.
“Lorenzo,” she says softly.
I close my eyes. For once, I’m the one who wants the wall back, so I pull away first. Not far. Just enough to breathe without breathing her in. Elizabeth watches me in the dim light, her mouth parted, her fingers still half-curled in my hair as if she hasn’t decided whether to keep holding on or let go.
I force myself to sit up. The bed is warm, her skin still flushed, the sheets carrying the scent of sex and sleep and all the reasons I should have kept my mouth shut. I rake a hand through my hair and stare out at the city brightening beyond the curtains.
Behind me, she says nothing. That’s almost worse.
I clear my throat. “Get some sleep.”
The words come out rough. I stand before she can answer and cross to the bathroom, shutting the door behind me with more care than I feel. Then I grip the sink and stare at my reflection like I’m looking at a stranger.
What I love.
Love.
The kind of word that turns powerful men stupid.
I splash cold water over my face and stay there longer than necessary, waiting for the worst of it to pass.
It doesn’t.
When I finally come back out, she’s lying on her side with her back to me, one hand beneath her cheek, the other resting low over her stomach. Maybe she’s pretending to sleep. Maybe she isn’t. I can’t tell.
I don’t ask.
I get dressed in silence and leave before I do something reckless like crawl back into bed and ask her what the hell she was about to say when she said my name like that.
Morning comes too fast, and I sleep like shit in my office.
I’m in the kitchen with black coffee and three hours of sleep when my phone rings.
Unknown international number.
I answer on instinct. “Conti.”
“Mr. Conti, this is Dr. Halden.”
The name takes me half a second to place. London. The obstetric specialist consulted after the poisoning.
I straighten. “Is something wrong?”
“No,” the doctor says. “Quite the opposite. I apologize for the hour. I thought you’d want the dating estimate as soon as I had it.”
A pulse starts beating low at the base of my throat. Dating estimate.
