Page 22 of Gilded Locks

“My name.”

“Ash.”

Silence stretched between them, neither one of them moving away. If anything, she might have leaned closer. Maybe she’d hit her head harder than she thought. Wasn’t there a name for people who developed feelings for their captors?

Her eyes drifted past his shoulder to the butcher block stuffed to the gills with sharp knives.

He caught her chin, forcing her gaze back to his. “Don’t go there. It won’t end well for you.”

“Is there any way this ends well for me?”

“I’m not your enemy.”

“How can you say that when you know nothing about me?”

“I know people. Anyone can do terrible things when pushed hard enough. Who pushed you, printsessa?”

The urge to bare her soul took her by surprise. She couldn’t be so trusting. Dropping her gaze, she broke eye contact.

“I see.” He lifted her chin. “Here’s what I do know.” He dragged a calloused thumb over the delicate bone of her cheek as if to emphasize how breakable she was. “If you turned on us, I know who would win.” He pressed a finger under her chin, lifting her gaze to further meet his. “And so do you.”

He was right. If she somehow armed herself against them—three to one—they would have her disarmed within seconds, and that would be the end of their kindness. But this wasn’t kindness. This was captivity.

“Will I regret staying, Ash? If I give you what you want, will I eventually hate myself for it?”

“You never know.” He shrugged and gathered up the trash on the counter. “Scrambled eggs?”

The intimacy vanished as if it had never existed at all. She remained on the counter as he pulled ingredients from the massive refrigerator with practiced efficiency.

“Or are you more of a pancake girl?”

“I’m not really hungry.”

He shot her a look. “I thought we established you’re prettier when you don’t lie.”

“What makes you think pretty is some monumental goal of mine?”

“Isn’t it every girl’s?”

“No.”

He returned to the island and caught her shoulders in a gentle grip. “Pretty or ugly, we all need to eat. When’s the last time you had a substantial meal?”

“Last night.”

“Bread and cheese hardly constitute a meal.” His hands closed around her ribs, and her spine lengthened as his fingers swept along the underside of her breasts. “You need to put some meat on these bones.” He stilled, noticing her tension but not removing his hands. “Does my touch bother you?”

Her jaw trembled. What could she say? They both knew the deal. She dropped her gaze again, but he didn’t let her go. “Does it matter?”

“Yes, it matters.” He held her without force, but also in a way that made his entitlement clear. “We’re not interested in your suffering, printsessa.”

She gave a subtle shake of her head, admitting his touch—as of this moment—was not as abhorrent as she’d assumed it might be. She could abide intimacy like this, though her tolerance did have its limits.

He moved his hands higher, now cupping her intimately enough that her nipples pressed through the wool between her flesh and his palms. “How about now?”

Breath tight in her lungs, she looked up at him with pleading eyes.

“You don’t have to be afraid with me, princess.”