Page 4 of Darkest Before Dawn (His Perfect Darkness #2)

R ex

The best thing about a long scene is the aftercare.

I carry Inara’s limp body to our bedroom.

The first stop is the bathroom, where I wash us both clean.

The ropes left red marks snaking over her golden skin, and I admire them before massaging the braid-like indentations.

I offer her painkillers and arnica, but she mumbles and shakes her head, so I bundle her up and take her to bed.

I wrap myself around her and sleep like the dead until morning.

Two things wake me—her leaving the bed and my rock-hard dick. I roll to my back and admire her shadowed silhouette. She sneaks to the bathroom, and then returns, but not to bed. She tiptoes to one of the closet doors, sneaking a glance inside.

I give the command for the curtains to open. Daylight pours in, startling her.

“Going somewhere?” I ask.

“I need clothes.” There’s a glow to her skin, a hint of a blush, and she’s looking everywhere but at me.

“Do you?” I want to tease her, introduce the idea of walking around naked except for her collar, but she crosses her arms over her chest, and I relent. She’s feeling vulnerable, which is making her pull away. If a few thin layers of fabric make her feel safe, then there’s no harm.

“Here.” I cross the room and open the door to the correct walk-in closet. “This is all yours.”

“What?” She peeks in, and her eyes widen. “Of course,” she murmurs mostly to herself. I’ve given her a wardrobe before, back when she stayed at Hotel Magnifique. She’s starting to get used to how I anticipate her needs.

She wastes no time selecting a pair of jeans and a button-down shirt, grabbing a lingerie set almost as an afterthought. To my disappointment, she disappears in the bathroom to change.

I make use of the moment of privacy to receive my morning report from my AI assistant.

Stock prices, corporate negotiations, and, more importantly, the results of the forensic testing Hamish ran on the letters sent to Inara.

So far, there’s no DNA or fingerprint evidence linking the Bondage Killer to the letters, but if there is, we’ll find it.

By the time Inara emerges, I’ve dressed for the day. She’s sleekly groomed and gorgeous in the casual clothes she favors for work. Her expression is closed off, a little wary. Her hand is at her throat, playing with the silver collar I placed around her neck.

She must have a lot on her mind, but she’s acting strange around me. Almost. . . shy.

I want her to be comfortable, but I savor her uncertainty. It says something about the monster I am that I enjoy having her off balance.

Even her trepidation is delicious.

“Are you sore?” I ask.

“Not really.” She’s still guarded. “Rex, we need to talk.”

“Of course.” I hold out my hand. “Let’s go.”

“Where?”

“Breakfast.”

She glances at the window. “It’s late.”

“Brunch then.” She’s acting like she has somewhere to be. I need to have patience. Yesterday, she insisted on going to work. Now that a killer is stalking her, things have changed, and she’s probably adjusting.

I can take her mind off of everything for a little while.

“Let me show you what Roy Manor has to offer.” I’ve already ordered a full brunch spread, but I take the long way to the breakfast room, guiding her through two ballrooms and a gallery or two. She lets me lead, holding my hand and taking everything in with wide eyes and a solemn expression.

Only once does she tug my hand for me to stop. She stalls in front of a portrait of my family. Me, as a boy with my parents. Back when they were still alive.

She studies it but says nothing. I brace myself for the sight of my dead parents and force myself to look up at the painting as if it’s a bland landscape that means nothing to me.

The faces look the same, and I wonder how many of my memories have shifted to match this painting versus the reality of how they actually looked. Have I forgotten them?

But no, when I remember them, I hear their soft voices, the sound of their laughter. There was so much love saturating each moment we spent together. It doesn’t matter what they looked like. All that matters is the love.

That’s what I lost.

And now I stand before them with the woman I’ve chosen.

I know what they’d think of her. But what would they think of me?

I’ve become someone they wouldn’t recognize.

Certainly not the sort of man they raised me to be.

My father was a doctor, my mother a philanthropist, both focused on saving lives, not destroying them.

They wouldn’t approve of my intense focus on keeping the city safe at all costs.

They wouldn’t condone the lines I’ve crossed.

The lives I’ve taken. They might mourn the man I’ve become.

But they would approve of Inara.

“I was seven when this was painted,” I tell her because I need to break the silence between us. I need her to know me in a way I haven’t allowed anyone else to know me since my parents died. “They hired the same master who did their wedding portrait. Family tradition.”

She looks down the long hall full of oil portraits on the wood-paneled walls. Generations of Roys stretching back to before my ancestors came to New Rome. “Ah.”

“After my parents died, I avoided this hall for years. Something about the way they’re smiling. They look like they’re looking forward to something.” I swallow, and it feels like razors are lining my throat.

She steps closer to me, and that makes the pain of talking about my parents worth it. “Like what?”

“Nothing. Everything. Life, I guess.” I stare at the gilt frame, unable to look even the decades-old visage of my father or mother in the eye. They had so much life to look forward to.

She leans in, pressing against my arm. She might be moving closer to see better, not to comfort me, but I feel comforted all the same. “You’re not smiling.” She points out the blank expression on young Rex Roy’s face.

“No. I wasn’t.”

Looking at the portrait has lost its appeal, so I look at her instead. Her profile is lovely. Enchanting, even though she’s withdrawn from me this morning. She’s possibly more enticing because of that. I always did love the chase.

I want to know what she’s thinking. I’m about to ask when her stomach gurgles.

“Let’s get some food into you.” I take her elbow, and she lets me steer her down the long hall, leaving the likeness of my parents and younger self.

We have breakfast in the south wing in a dining room that gives us a view of my mother’s gardens.

“This is incredible,” she says once she’s finished her omelet.

“What?”

“All this.” She waves a hand around the cavernous room. This was my mother’s favorite dining space, full of light. It was designed with white columns and cream and gold wallpaper, and she added large pastoral paintings in ornate frames.

“Oh.” I set down my napkin. I say thank you because it’s polite and not because I had a damned thing to do with the architecture.

“I can’t imagine growing up here.” For the first time today, she meets my gaze.

We share a long glance, and I sense that she’s not complimenting me on the grandness of the house.

She’s thinking of how it would be to live here as the last remaining Roy.

So much wealth and grandeur and nothing to make it a home. “You must have been lonely.”

“Hamish took care of me,” I say lightly. “And I went to school.”

“Until you were kicked out.”

“I see you read my journals.” I know she found my boyhood bedroom. I watched her on the surveillance cameras. We haven’t discussed it yet.

She looks abashed at invading my privacy. “Only a few. But I don’t need to read them to know how alone you were.”

She knows because she’s felt that deep, aching loneliness herself. She didn’t have the comfort of wealth to buffer it. She sees me, and she understands.

As exciting as it is to have her know my secrets, I don’t know if I’m ready to be dissected like this. “When you’re finished eating, I’ll give you a tour of the rest of the house.”

“Rex,” she hesitates, and I know she’s going to say what’s been on her mind since she woke up. “I’m not staying.”

I half expected it, but it still hits like a body blow.

“Thank you for breakfast,” she continues, “but I should be going.”

I control my impulse to shout No . “Where will you go?”

“To the city. To do my job.” She’s toying with her collar again.

I clear my throat and look pointedly at her collar until she realizes what she’s doing and drops her hand.

Only to raise it again to indicate the metal at her throat. “When are you going to remove this?”

“Why would I remove it?” I’ll make her say it outright. Tell me she doesn’t want this.

We both know she’d be lying.

She huffs. “I can’t wear it forever.”

“Why not?”

She looks around as if waiting for help to come. “Because I need to work. I need to get back?—”

“No, you don’t.” I let my gaze roll over her. She’s wearing the clothes I gave her and eating the food I provided.

She flushes because she knows how much she loves it when I care for her. “You thought I would, what, quit my job and be your full-time submissive?

“Sounds perfect.” Being with her is the most pleasure I’ve had in this grand room. I lean in, coaxing her to confide in me. “You love this. You love my control.”

She averts her gaze, and I want to grip her shoulders. Make her admit what she seems so reluctant to voice.

“I’m not interested in being a trophy.” She goes to touch her collar again, and that subconscious gesture tells me she’s preoccupied with the physical evidence of my possession. She realizes what she’s doing and brushes her hair back instead. “I do love what we shared. But. . .”

“I told you when you came to me, I’d keep you.” My voice is soft but firm. “I keep my promises, little bird.”

Her pulse flutters in her neck. “That was just a game.”

“Such a lovely game.” I capture her hand and bring it to my lips. I kiss and caress her fingers, and some of the tension in her shoulders softens.