Page 25 of The Crowned Garza

“Oh, no. I’m good…”

He nods in the direction of an ajar door. “Go put on what I left on the bed for you.”

When I just stand there, taking in this ruffled, at-home version of him, he bites out, “Go put clothes on, Tillie.”

“What’s the matter? Don’t trust yourself around me in a towel?”

Why else would he so pointedly avoid looking in my direction? Huh, seems he might be a red-blooded human after all.

His fingers tighten around the phone in his hand. “Giuro su Dio, Tillie—”

“Okay, okay, I’m going,” I acquiesce, stifling a laugh.

Heading to the ajar door, I throw a last-minute glance over my shoulder. Disappointingly, he’s not watching me like I thought he would be, but instead turned away entirely, engrossed in his phone.

Silly me for thinking he would be checking me out. When did I become this pathetic?

Behind the door is a bedroom as hyper-masculine as the rest of the loft. Oakwood furniture for warmth, thick drapes along the floor-to-ceiling glass windows.

Left on the bed are two pieces of folded garb. A plain black tee and a pair of black boxers. They smell like him. Like darkness and secrets. My ample ass and hips fill out the boxers, but the tee is roomy even with my D-cups.

Happily dressed in Saint-scented cotton, I wander off into the walk-in closet. It’s a wide galley, with one side being just rows of crisp white shirts. Who needs this many white shirts? Does he discard them after he wears them or something?

On the other side is a mixture of pants, jackets, coats, and undershirts. And at the dead end of the galley is a wall of shoes. For each style of shoes, there aresevenpairs.

I knew he was a psycho.

There are also twice as many bow ties in various shades of black and gray, all arrayed in singular built-in compartments.

“Piccola regina?”Saint calls, his voice distant.

I pivot and hurry out of the closet, slowing down once I’m close to the bedroom door, then casually pad out into the open.

Saint is by the kitchen area, leaned against the large black-stone peninsula, and his intolerant expression is back in full effect. He motions to the mug on the counter. “Your tea is getting cold.”

Tea? Did I ask for tea?

I trek to the peninsula but go around to the side where he is instead of to the mug. His gaze is justifiably leery as he watches me approach.

Stopping in front of him, I tentatively slip two fingers between the lapels of his unbuttoned shirt that’s teasing glimpses of inked skin. But before my fingers can make contact, he grabs my wrist.

“Careful,regalità.”

“I just wanna see your tats.”

“Go. Drink your tea.” He lowers my hand with force. “I have to be up in a few hours.” He steps around me and strides off to the bathroom.

Whyam I attracted to that mercurial meanie again?

I round to the other side of the peninsula and take a sip of the tea. Ginger. Oh, yeah, I did indeed ask him for ginger tea.

Mug in hand, I meander over to the floor-to-ceiling windows to take in the view, only to jolt back as if it burned me when I look down below. “Holy frickin’ shit.”

We’re in the Red Cage building? What the hell? Is that why he took that elaborate secret route? And why would he even need to? I’m so confused.

The sound of something rattling has me jolting again. I whirl around to see that it’s the handle of a second door several feet down from the bedroom door.

The shower is running, so it’s not Saint rattling that handle. Is there someone else here? Does he have a hostage or something?