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"The woman who cleans the apartment changed them yesterday," I say, watching her face. "Perfect timing for unexpected guests."
Her eyes narrow as she processes this information. "So you've slept in them at least once."
Something about her concern over sharing sheets with me stirs something inside me—amusement, maybe, or something darker. I step closer, watching her body language shift.
"Does that bother you?" I ask, my voice dropping lower. "Knowing I've been between those sheets?"
Her cheeks flush and I can see the pulse at her throat quicken. Anger flashes in her eyes—not fear, but genuine frustration.
"You're disgusting," she snaps but there's something beneath her words that catches my attention. Something that feels like attraction wrapped in denial.
I don't move, just watch her. "You asked."
Evelyn glares at me before marching to the bed and sitting on the edge. She places her violin case carefully beside her, then lies down, turning her back to me in one fluid motion.
"Get out," she says, her voice muffled against the pillow. "Now."
I stare at her back, amused by her command. For a woman who's essentially my prisoner, she's got more fire than most men I've killed.
"That's not happening," I say, moving toward the bed. "This is my room."
She sits up so fast her hair whips around, water droplets flying. "I am not sleeping in the same bed as you."
I smirk, enjoying the way her eyes flash with defiance. "Worried you might enjoy it?"
"You're delusional," she spits, clutching the violin case closer. "I'd rather sleep on the floor."
"And ruin your pretty poise? How would you play that violin then?" I step closer, watching her tense. "What would happen to those delicate joints if you slept on hardwood all night?"
Her jaw clenches. She knows I'm right, but she's too stubborn to admit it.
"Fine. You take the floor then," she says, lifting her chin.
I laugh, genuinely entertained by her audacity. "You think I'm sleeping on my own fucking floor while you take my bed?"
"I think you're the one who kidnapped me, so yes."
For a moment, we just stare at each other, locked in a silent battle of wills. Most people would have broken eye contact by now, intimidated by my presence. Not her. Not Evelyn Anderson.
"I'll bring the sofa in," I say, surprising myself with the compromise.
Her eyebrows lift slightly. "What?"
"The sofa. From the living room. I'll bring it in here."
I don't wait for her response, just turn and walk out. The leather sofa isn't heavy, but it's awkward to maneuver through the doorway. When I get it into the bedroom I position it near the window, far enough from the bed to give her space, close enough that I can watch her.
Evelyn sits with her legs crossed now, still holding that damn violin case like it's a shield.
"Why are you doing this?" she asks quietly.
I ignore her question, grabbing a spare pillow and throw blanket from the closet. "Get some sleep."
I stretch out on the sofa, the leather cool against my back. It's too small for my frame, my feet hanging off the edge, but I've slept in worse places. The steady rhythm of Evelyn's breathing fills the room. She's curled on her side, facing away from me, the violin case tucked against her chest like a child's teddy bear.
My body's exhausted but my mind won't shut down. Not with her lying there in my bed, just feet away from me.
Fuck.