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My body aches to be closer. I want her to smile at me the way she smiled freely at the construction worker the other day. To talk to me the way she talks to Mary Jane. She could’ve asked me if I had the crystal, but she didn’t. Instead, she went snooping upstairs.

She laughs and picks up the pace. Great, she found the gate at the end of the property. She runs her hand over the lock, and it gives under her touch immediately. The grounds crew must’ve left it unlocked after they finished their work. She tugs at the iron-wrought handle using all her weight.

“There’s nothing but woods and wild animals beyond those gates.” I project my voice.

“Oh my god.” She startles at the sight of me and trips over a stump.

“Be careful.” I rush to her and catch her.

“You scared me.” She blushes, looking up at me.

I smirk, pleased with the idea that maybe she hasn’t forgotten about last night. “Are you going somewhere, Little Dove?” I cross my arms over my chest. “We got six inches of snow just this morning.”

“Really?” She raises an eyebrow, shooting a quick glance at the house in the distance. “You came all the way out here to talk about the weather?” She laughs.

It’s a genuine sound that fills my chest with glee.

“I came to warn you,” I say softly. “The woods are not maintained like the grounds inside the walls are. Wild animals roam freely out there, looking for food.”

“Are you worried for my safety?” she asks, her gaze is full of defiance. “Or maybe you thought I was planning my escape.”

“Both.” I study her features. “I already told you. You’re not going anywhere. Your place is here with me.”

“Why?” She throws up her arms in frustration. “You don’t even talk to me.”

“We spoke last night. Didn’t we?” I step closer.

“That’s.” Heat rushes to her cheeks. “That’s not what I meant. I don’t know anything about you. And yet, you insist on keeping me here.” She gestures toward the open gate. “Like I’m your prisoner. Or your worst enemy. Why?”

“I can’t let you leave. I simply don’t have the ability to,” I answer honestly. “I feel very protective of you. Don’t you understand? It isn’t safe out there. And I don’t mean just the woods.”

“You can let me go back to my father.” She hugs herself. “I’ll be safe with him.”

“Your father?” I bark out a laugh. “How can you not see him for what he is? He’s out there gambling again.”

“No, he’s not.” Her lip trembles.

“Is that why you want to go back to him? So he can sell you again when he loses another four million? Or maybe this time he’ll just bring his friends in and let them all have a go at you for a small price?” I practically spat the words.

She slaps me across the face. “You don’t have to be so cruel. Dad tried really hard to find a different way to pay off his debt. I messed up his plans when I lost the necklace.” She purses her lips. “It was my fault. You had your fun. Would you please just let me go?”

“No.” I prowl toward her and cradle her face. “You’re mine. You’re only mine, Little Dove. And I protect what’s mine.”

“You know what? It doesn’t matter. You’ll get tired of me eventually.” She turns on her heel and crosses the threshold, doing exactly the opposite of what I asked her not to do.

Does she truly believe that her acting like a spoiled brat is going to stomp the desire burning in my veins. If anything, the more she defies me, the more I want her.

I look over my shoulder toward the mansion, thinking of the pile of work I have waiting for me. But for the life of me I can’t make myself leave. I can’t stop thinking about kissing her cold nose and reaching inside her coat to feel her tight body again, maybe finger her pussy this time, and show her how good it could be between us. If only she trusted me. If only she saw her father for who he really is.

“Don’t follow me,” she says over her shoulder. “I don’t need you looking at me like a creep.”

Oh, Little Dove. If I could leave you alone, I would. “I’m staying.” I smirk. “I think you like it when I look at you.”

I walk next to her, keeping to her slow pace and short gait. The fresh air feels good in my lungs, as if I’m coming up for air for the first time in a long while. After another ten minutes, the tension weighing on her shoulders begins to dissolve. She relaxes and resumes her exploration of the gardens.

“The original architect favored the English style,” I say when she stops to admire a row of frozen bushes, then looks back at the gardens. Her eyes open wide in surprise as if she can’t believe we’re talking like civilized people. When she recovers, I add, “When Mom came to live here, she gave the gardens more of a French feel, filled it with wildflowers that are native to New York.”

“I bet it’s gorgeous in the spring.” She faces the sun, closing her eyes.