Brazen and the Beast (The Bareknuckle Bastards 2)

He tossed the garment—stained beyond reason after the events of the night—to the floor and moved to sit in a near high-backed chair and remove his boots.

She couldn’t stop marveling at him, at the way his body folded into the seat, revealing muscles that she was fairly certain ordinary, everyday humans did not have, flexing and stretching. She bit back a sigh, which would have been more than embarrassing if he’d heard it.

He bent over to remove a boot, and winced. It was barely there—gone before someone might notice, at least someone who was not riveted to his every movement.

She stepped forward, not liking him in pain. “May I help?”

He froze at the question, going so still, Hattie thought perhaps she’d made a terrible mistake. He didn’t look at her when he shook his head and said, impossibly quiet, “No.”

The boot came off in a rush, and he winced again, ignoring whatever warning his body was providing to immediately tackle the second. She stepped forward again, and he did look up then. Repeated himself, this time louder. “No.”

When his second boot was discarded, he stood, reaching into his pocket and extracting his watch. Watches.

Two watches. Always.

He set them on a small table, next to a basket filled with bandages and thread, presumably because he required mending regularly after fights. Hattie was transfixed by the metal disks. Without looking away from them, she said, “Why do you carry two watches?”

There was a pause long enough for her to think he might not answer. His hands came to the waistband of his trousers. “I don’t like to be late.”

She shook her head. “I don’t . . .”

The words trailed off as he worked the buttons of his trousers. She kept her eyes on his, not wanting to be rude, but she could count the buttons from the rough movements of shoulders as he unfastened them. Three. Four. Five.

She couldn’t stop herself. She looked. Of course she looked. The dim light in the room made it impossible to see anything but a dark V of shadow, framed by his strong hands, thumbs tucked into the fabric as though he could stand there, under her gaze, forever, if she wished it.

She wished it.

And between those thumbs, a hint of something else. Skin. She swallowed, tearing her gaze from it, cheeks blazing. He was watching her, amber eyes gleaming in the firelight, and for a single, wild moment, she wondered what he would do if she went to him and touched him. If she added her hands to his, there, in the shadows.

As quickly as she thought it, he changed, relaxing into himself, his eyes going hooded, as though he, too, was thinking it. As though he would welcome her touch if she offered it.

He still owed her a ruination.

Every other time they’d been together, time or location had impeded the delivery on their arrangement. But now—here—

He could ruin her, properly.

She wanted it. And giving in to her own want was a magnificent freedom.

Not that she would voice it.

He filled her silence, low and dark, as though the words were scraped through gravel on their way past his lips. “Did you have something to ask?”

She shook her head, finding words difficult. “No.”

A knowing smile played over his lips and he turned away, as though this were all perfectly normal, pushing his trousers down his hips as he made for the bath. At the flash of buttocks, Hattie looked away, past him, to the window beyond the bathtub, now a mirror, revealing—

Oh, my.

She turned her back on the scene instantly. “Is this how you ordinarily conduct business?”

Silence met the question. No. Not silence. Too much sound. The sound of him stepping into the bath, the water sloshing as it accepted his weight. His low growl as he settled into its indulgent heat.

The sound was pure hedonism, and desire pooled deep, spreading heat through her, as though she, too, were in a bath.

As though she were with him in his.

What if she were?

She gave a little laugh at the thought, unable to fathom a scenario in which she would be brave enough to shed her clothing without hesitation. Unable to imagine being the kind of woman who invited herself into a man’s bath.

Another splash came, and she resisted the urge to turn and look, to see what he’d done to cause it. She focused on the bright light in the room beyond, the edges of the carpets, overlapping.

Once he was settled, he spoke. “Did you not promise me a fight?”

She was so surprised by the teasing question that she turned to face him, unprepared for the vision of him, relaxed, his arms resting on the edge of the copper tub, head tilted back, eyes closed, his dark hair wet and slicked back from his beautiful face, the dried blood now gone from his cheek, a small cut all that remained, surrounded by a fast-darkening bruise.

It should have marred his beauty. It didn’t. Instead, it brought him into reach, down to earth, among the mere mortals. It made Hattie want to touch him. It made her want to claim him. It made her want to—

“You’ve already had a fight tonight,” she said softly.

His eyes flew open, instantly finding hers. “And so? What do you offer?”

“I just want to . . .” She looked to the window, to the tableau reflected in the blackness there. She, in men’s clothing, eyes wide, and he, broad and bronzed in the bathtub. What didn’t she offer? There was so much she wanted from him. Touch. Words. Pleasure. And something else . . . something she didn’t dare name.

Something she couldn’t have.

She tore her gaze away from the window. Looked to him. “I want to care for you.” Like that, his relaxation was gone. His jaw set and the muscles in his shoulders tensed. She added quickly, “I shouldn’t want to care for you, of course. We are enemies.”

“Are we?” He reached for the length of linen draped over the tub, pulling it into the water with more force than necessary.

“I plan to give you quite a fight for my business.”

“And I shall meet you toe-to-toe,” he said. “Tomorrow.”

A thrill shot through her at the word. At the way it freed her. Freed them both. Tomorrow was not tonight.

“I shan’t like you tomorrow,” she said, feeling it was important to say so.

He nodded. “I will not blame you.”

Except she would like him, she feared. Even though she had absolutely no reason to like him. Even though he’d lied to her. And hurt her. But now—he did not seem like that man. He seemed . . .

Good.

His movements beneath the water were quick and perfunctory, and Hattie worried that he might aggravate his bruises. She stepped forward, holding a hand out as though she could stop him. He snapped his attention to her, and the focus in his eyes was enough to set her back on her heels.

“Tomorrow, then,” she said, suddenly breathless.

The only sound in the room was the smooth movement of the water as he finished bathing. Until he asked, quietly enough that at first, she almost did not believe he’d said it out loud. “How would you care for me tonight, warrior?”

She blushed. “I told you.”

“Did you?”

“I would bandage you.”

“And when that is done?”

She swallowed. “I—I don’t know. Thank you, I suppose. For protecting me.”

He shook his head. “I don’t deserve your gratitude. I don’t want one thing that happens tonight to be because of your gratitude. I want it to be because you want it.”