Page 84 of His Forced Bride

"Why?" I ask.

"Why what?"

"All of it. The paints. The guards you stationed at my remaining employees' homes. The emergency funding you sent to the hospital to care for the employees who were injured."

I step closer, studying his face.

"Don't tell me it's about protecting your investments."

His jaw tightens almost imperceptibly.

"Your employees are valuable assets. Your businesses generate revenue streams that benefit our alliance."

"And the paints?"

"Restless people make poor decisions."

The deflection comes smoothly, but I catch something else in his expression.

The way his gaze returns to the canvas.

How he brought me tea yesterday morning without being asked, left it on the small table beside my bed while I pretended to sleep.

The way he positioned himself next to me in bed Tuesday night when nightmares ripped screams from my throat.

I woke to his arms around me and his soft kisses on my forehead, but he doesn't know I was ever awake.

"That's not the whole truth," I say.

"Truth is a dangerous commodity."

I move closer, close enough to see the faint lines around his eyes, the small scar along his jawline that disappears into the shadow of his beard.

"You held me when I was having nightmares. You think I don't notice, but I do."

"You were screaming. It was disruptive."

"Disruptive to whom? The guards aren't going to be triggered by a shrieking woman. Rosa sleeps on the opposite side of the house."

I'm not letting up.

He's excellent at breaking men, and maybe I want to take a stab at it.

His eyes narrow slightly.

"Finish your painting."

But he doesn't leave me.

He stays sitting there after loosening his tie and watches as I return to my work, hyperaware of his presence and the way he watches my hands move across the canvas.

"You can leave if you're bored," I say after several minutes of loaded silence.

"I'm not bored."

"Then what are you?"

He doesn't answer, but when I glance over my shoulder, his expression is one of fascination.