But I don’t kiss her. I’m a goddamn professional, and I don’t kiss her. I maneuver Ella into my arms in a chaste carry, her warm body curled against my chest. Her head rests easily against my shoulder. She’s so deeply asleep I have to cradle her tighter than I otherwise would. Far tighter than would be considered professional.
The herringbone stairs leading up to the second floor are dark, but I trust them to be empty in this barren, spotless house. They are. A nightlight in the upstairs hall casts enough of a glow for me to see that Ella’s bedroom door is ajar. I nudge it open the rest of the way with my shoulder and carry her to the bed.
This part takes more planning. I don’t think she’ll stand, so I keep her in my arms and nudge the covers down as best I can, then lower her to the sheets.
Ella’s almost there when she startles, a tiny jerk of her body against mine. Her arms come up and around my neck and holy shit, she can hold tight. Her grip is solid and strong and her forehead presses into the side of my neck, her breath warm on my skin. I feel that all the way down to my erection. It only takes a moment for her to loosen her grasp, falling back into a deep sleep.
I take a ragged breath and force myself to it again. She is sleeping. She’s not aware of what she’s doing, let alone what she does to me. I move to lower her the rest of the way, but even when Ella’s body makes contact with the mattress, she doesn’t let go completely.
“Sleep with me,” she murmurs, her voice tactile on my skin. “Zander. Stay.”
My name. Her lips. That voice.
Fuck.
It takes more strength than I would have thought to untwist her arms from my neck. “It’s time for you to sleep.” I use my professional voice now, firm but not cold. Ella won’t remember that I’ve also used a touch of my Dominant side. She shivers beneath me.
Maybe she will remember.
She turns over and slips one wrist under her pillow. I feel like a monster standing over her like this. Wanting her like this. Wanting, with every last bit of my soul, to crawl into bed next to her and sleep and sleep and sleep.
Then wake to do other things.
It’s torture to stay and wait for her breathing to even out.
Ella rolls over again, her eyes catching the faint light. “Please?” The word is a breath on her lips that must contain witchery. It’s potent enough to cast spells.
I put a hand out and stroke her hair. This is allowed. This is a professional touch between a client and a member of The Firm. This is to provide her with the emotional support she’s desperate for. Calmly I give her the command, “Sleep.”
“Sleepless dreams,” she murmurs and closes her eyes.
Dreamless sleep. That’s what she means. I have dreamless nights now, thanks to the little blue pills, but I know what happens when I go off them. I know what I’ll see when I close my eyes for the night. Memories rush in and try to fill the room. I push them away one by one. We’re not doing this tonight. I am on the clock.
A few minutes of soft breathing, and Ella rolls over onto her back.
It takes everything I have, every ounce of self-control, to do what I have to do next.
I flip up her nightgown. Not so far that it uncovers the soft flesh of her belly—just far enough to access the belt to the robe. I can’t leave her to sleep tangled in the silk garment. I’ve watched her in bed before. I know exactly how she sleeps, although stripping her down entirely is out of the question.
Touching her as little as possible, I maneuver the robe from her shoulders, sliding it down without disturbing her. Ella is so warm. So soft. Everything I want to do to her strikes me as I focus on simply removing the robe. My hands ache with the urge to touch her and feel exactly how soft she is. I want to skim my hands up under her nightgown to her tits. I want to drag a fingertip around each nipple until it pebbles for me.
I want to put my hand around her throat. Not to constrict her breathing, just enough for her to feel it. No. I only want to hold her in my grip. It would be good for her. Maybe that’s the assessment of a broken man who is searching for excuses, but I think it would. Here in the dark, in her bedroom, I think it would be good for her. It would give her a sense of safety. If she can’t be in control, then I’ll be in control for her.
I bow my head instead of shaking it and ease the robe over her hips, down her thighs, all the way to her ankles.
And then I pull it off.
I watch her a moment longer, ignoring every sordid thought I have, and then I leave, closing the door behind me. I leave her in her bedroom, with all its pristine shelves and empty surfaces. There’s practically nothing in there. Sparse as a hotel room. Ella is the room’s most interesting feature.
My heart beats hard with new adrenaline. My shift isn’t over, and my to-do list isn’t finished. In the rec room I sit down on the couch and slide my hand under the pillow. The little bottle of alcohol is half-empty. This can’t have been the only one, can it? She didn’t smuggle in a single-serving shot.
There were probably more.
If I want to find out, I’m going to have to ask Damon. We work two days on, two days off. Silas and Dane take the days in between. Damon works the day shift on our days and there’s no doubt in my mind that she drank at least half this bottle today while he was here.
For a split second, I wonder if I should inform him at all. Partly to protect her from his future precautions, but also because I’d much rather punish her myself. Without prying eyes and paperwork.
The glass bottle stares back at me.