Devil's Pawn (Devil's Pawn Duet 1)

She does, careful to lie on her side. She lays her cheek on her hands and closes her eyes.

I tuck the blanket around her and climb in on my side, setting one arm over her waist hoping to anchor her.

“Is it the night of the break in?” I ask a few moments later.

“I don’t remember.”

Lie.

“Do you have it often?” I ask after a minute. “The nightmare?”

“Please don’t pretend to care.” She tries to tug free, but I draw her closer.

“Do you?”

“Why? Are you worried it’ll disrupt your sleep cycle?”

“I know how terrifying it can be to feel helpless in sleep.”

“Do you?”

“I do.”

“I’m sure proximity to you brought it on so if you’re really concerned—”

“Right.” I shake my head. “Goodnight, Isabelle. If you need me—”

“I won’t.”

“Right.”

Isabelle is still sleeping when I wake the next morning. Her back is to me, the silhouette of her soft and curving, her hands still tucked beneath her cheek, hair a long, black river spilling over the pillow, the blanket covering her hip, long legs exposed and beautiful.

I don’t move just yet. I take her in. Then I study the tattoo. My work. My mark on her. Santiago’s design. He’s very good. The twin dragons face one another, mouths open, locked in battle and embracing at once. It’s in their eyes, that connection. Their powerful bodies split and spiral her spine erasing the scar, the devil’s tail dipping into the curve of her lower back and disappearing into the cleft of her ass.

Fuck.

I’m hard at the sight of it. At the thought of her last night. Of how she looked on her knees, ass offered to me. How she felt, how warm and wet and tight she was.

Fuck.

But then later, that nightmare, her thrashing about. I make a mental note to find out more details of that night. Learn if the police report left anything out.

But now is not the time. I have things to do, and they don’t involve fucking my wife. Not until after.

She doesn’t stir as I slip out of the bed but even after my shower, she hasn’t moved. Her body must be exhausted after what it was made to endure, not to mention her mind. Her emotions.

I watch her as I dress, study her face in sleep. Soft and relaxed, eyelashes thick and heavy, lips parted just a little, her breathing deep. I scribble a note for her on a piece of paper and leave it on the nightstand. I go downstairs and find Angelique eating breakfast with my mother.

“Daddy,” she says with a big smile on her face when she sees me.

“Good morning, sweetheart,” I tell her realizing last night I never kissed her goodnight. Neither did Isabelle. Broke her promise. Broke my own. Not a night has gone by that I haven’t kissed my daughter goodnight when I’ve been home.

I walk toward her, kiss her forehead when she turns her face up to mine.

“Where is Belle?” she asks sweetly.

I’m irritated at her nickname of Isabelle but remind myself she’s a little girl infatuated by the idea of the princesses in her storybooks. That’s all. “She’s still sleeping. She’s tired after yesterday.”