Page 57 of Bad Girl
Then her voice dropped—low, conspiratorial, clearly intended for Charles and Charles alone.
“Does he treat you well? Blink twice if you need help.”
Charles did not respond. His footsteps continued without pause—the unshakeable composure of a man who had seen everything and considered most of it beneath comment.
“This way, Miss Horvat.”
“Very well, Jeeves.”
The sound of her heels on the wooden floor. Steady. Unhurried.
“My offer still stands,” she said, with a quiet laugh that reached me before she did.
Something rose in my chest that I didn’t immediately have a name for. I stood with it for a moment, turning it over.
Not nerves. Not the low persistent hum of threat assessment that had followed me since the conference room.
Something older than that. Something I hadn’t felt since I was young enough not to think about what I was carrying—that specific lightness that came before responsibility had a name. The singular joy of something completely new. No board meetings. No pack politics. No weight of a decision that couldn’t be undone.
The joy of playfulness that I’d left behind in my childhood. The challenge of something quite unique.
Just her, on the other side of my door, checking on my valet’s wellbeing and teasing him.
I thought of Cuán. Of the brandy and the couch and I may never find my mate delivered with full theatrical commitment to an audience of one.
I hoped, with more feeling than I expected, that fate proved him wrong. I wished my brother to experience this particular joy.
The footsteps stopped inside the drawing room.
It was time to join her.
??????
Charles was just leaving the drawing room as I approached. His lips twitched. One greying eyebrow arched—a full sentence in Charles’s language, which I’d learned to read over the years. It wasn’t often he expressed himself.
“Dinner will be served in twenty minutes, sir,” he said as I passed.
I nodded. He was already forgotten.
She had her back to me, facing the riverfront. The city spread out beyond the glass—lights on water, the Thames doing what it always did, entirely indifferent to what was happening in my drawing room. It was a pretty sight for London.
Prettier now, with her standing in front of it.
The black dress clung to every curve. Through the lace ran a flash of grey—that hint of colour tracing the shape of her, drawing my eyes to the tight material across her hips before I redirected them with some effort. The sleeves were short. The length fell to her ankles.
Modest, I told myself. Perfectly modest. I could work with this while I attempted to ingratiate myself with Nika and her spirited wolf.
I’d taken three steps into the room when she turned.
She pushed her hair back and revealed the rest of the dress. Part of it was missing and the other part had a slit that travelled all the way up to—her unmentionable area.
Not yet. Not now. I told myself.
My body didn’t seem to behave.
She moved toward me. More of her leg with every step. I dragged my eyes upward and was immediately assaulted by the neckline.
I made the mistake of breathing.
