Chapter 15

I know I should be the kind of man who offers to sleep on the floor when I come out of the bathroom ten minutes later, teeth brushed and flossed, face washed, deodorant reapplied so I don't stink up the joint.

I know I should be the kind of man who doesn't offer but just does it—takes a pillow and blanket and crashes on the floor, not makes a request hopeful that it'll be turned down, that she'll invite me to share the bed.

I know I should be those men.

But I'm not.

I come out with fresh teeth and a decent-smelling body, and I crawl right into bed next to Rory.

She gasps softly, but I don't withdraw.

I don't push it any further either.

I just settle on my pillow, several feet between us, even though I also want to be the kind of man who crawls into bed, draws her against me, and fucks her senseless, morals or the right thing to do be damned.

But she's not ready for that.

It's been a week since the non-wedding—or tomorrow will be, anyway.

She needs time.

So, I just roll on my side, face her, and ask, "What are you thinking?"

She surprises me by not prevaricating, not shutting me down. Instead, she sighs and rolls to face me, hands tucked beneath her head. "That your mom is really nice and I feel like a giant jerk for even suggesting that we lie to her."

My heart squeezes. "It's a little lie."

Her brows lift. "An engagement is a little lie?"

Okay, she has a point, so I don't argue further. "I'll fix it when she goes off to visit my brother."

"Which brother?"

"Actually," I admit, "I'm not sure. I know she'll be with Jakob for Christmas, because he's the only one of us with kids, and she'll want to be there for the holiday, but otherwise she goes where the wind blows her."

"Jakob's wife doesn't mind her coming for the holiday?"

I bite back a grimace. "His ex-wife is currently fucking her trainer in Hawaii, so she doesn't really get a say in the matter."

Rory winces, her deep green eyes contrite. "Damn," she says. "I'm sorry."

"Nothing to be done for it," I mutter. "I can't say that we liked her all that much, but the way she imploded Jakob's—and the boys'—lives and I can honestly say that I wouldn't mind her getting a severe sunburn in a very sensitive spot."

Lips twitching, Rory huffs out a laugh before her face goes serious. "She cheated then?"

"With that trainer."

"Oof."

"Yup." I shake my head. "Cheated and then decided she didn't want to be a mom any longer, leaving Jakob a single dad to five-year-old twins who"—my mouth curves—"are more than a handful on a normal day, but even more so after all of that happened."

"Poor babies," Rory murmurs.

"Yeah," I agree. "That's not something they'll easily get over." Some traumas slice too deep, create hurts that can't be fixed, no matter how much time has passed.

"Luckily, they have you and your siblings." Her expression gentles. "And your mom. The big happy Bang family."

I tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. "The dramatic, chaotic insanity of the Bang Brothers, you mean?"

"Yeah. That." She grins, but it's cut off by a yawn.

"You're still recovering," I murmur, and before I can stop myself, I trace the yellowed edge of the bruise around her throat, the one she's been covering with makeup, the one I can see now only because she's washed that mask away.

Because it's just her and me.

My heart rolls over in my chest. "You should go to sleep."

One hand slips out from beneath her head, mussing her hair as she stretches her arm out beneath mine, winding our limbs together. She brushes her fingers beneath my eye, lightly stroking the bruise. "You've had a busy week yourself," she whispers. "Saving me." A beat. "Twice." Another. "Plus, two practices. A game. Managing Zeus and dealing with an interloper—me—" She smiles. "In your house. Not to mention your mom showing up unexpectedly early." Her thumb traces over my cheek. "That plate of yours is full."

I shrug as well as I'm able to while lying on my side then pull my arm back. "I'd rather it full than empty."

"Right," she murmurs, drawing back herself. "I just…" She shakes her head, stoppers up the question.

"What?" I ask.

"It doesn't matter."

"You're my fake fiancée," I tell her. "I think that means everything in that gorgeous brain of yours matters."

She yawns. "Sorry," she murmurs, dashing a hand over her face. Then touches my hand. "It's just…did I thank you for helping me?"

There goes that feeling in my belly again, the swoosh, the way phantom fingers seem to sweep up and squeeze my heart. "I don't need a thanks, princess."

"I know," she says. Her top shoulder lifts toward her ear and drops. "Or I know that the King I'm getting to know doesn't need one." She exhales softly. "But that King deserves one."

Another squeeze of those phantom fingers. "Princess, you don't?—"

"I know." Her palm presses to my chest, above my pounding heart. "But thank you, Kingston Bang. I—" She sighs, closes her eyes for a long moment. "I'm scared of starting over again, but it's a little easier knowing that you have my back."

Christ, she's sweet.

And beautiful.

And my dick is very aware that we're lying in bed next to each other, being nice to one another for a change. The problem is that there are far too few layers between us, and it only takes a bare moment for me to remember the sight of those long, slender legs beneath the hem of my tee as she'd walked out of the bathroom, the way the material had clung to the tips of her breasts.

No bra.

No bra as she's lying next to me—soft and sweet and all too touchable.

Only…her eyes are drooping and her yawns—another one coming as she opens her mouth to seemingly ask me another question. "Sorry," she says. "I just wanted to?—"

Another yawn.

And I've had enough.

I peel her hand from my chest, press a kiss to the palm, and gently set it on her belly. "I think your body is telling you that it's past time to sleep."

"I'm fine," she says.

"You're tired."

I roll over and flick off the light, sending the room plunging into darkness.

"King," she says, tone exasperated. "Really?"

I give in to the ache in my chest—those phantom fingers squeezing and squeezing and squeezing—and then I reach across the distance between us and tug her back against me.

A soft gasp, her body going stiff for a moment.

"Hurt you?" I manage to rasp, guilt and need tangling together, stealing up my throat.

Silence.

For so long that I almost pull my arm away, almost roll and flick on the light, if only to see her face.

But then she melts against me, all of her soft pressing into me, her soft sigh of contentment hitting hard enough to steal any words, any movement, making it so that I can't do anything except hold her.

Hold her as she says, the words as quiet as the night creeping in, "No, King, you didn't hurt me."

Hold her and listen to her as she slowly drifts off to sleep.

Hold her and claim her as mine and?—

Hold her as I allow sleep to coax me under.