I blink. “You don’t even know what I was going to ask.”
He shrugs. “You were going to ask where you’re sleeping. And the answer is here, in this bed,” he says bluntly, tapping the foot of it.
My face heats. “Okay. And—”
“So am I.” He looks at me, arching a brow. “Any other questions?”
“None,” I croak out.
Not like I’ve literally ever shared a bed with anyone, but here we are.
A little while later, after I’ve unpacked a bit, I poke my head into the kitchen, where Kratos is chopping vegetables. I resist the urge to comment on how weirdly domestic this feels.
Not weird in a bad way at all. Just—different, considering that most of our interactions so far have been…primal in nature.
Dark, deviant, and fucked-up.
Not folding clothes into drawers or prepping mushrooms.
“Do you mind if I rinse off?”
He glances up at me, amusement on his face.
“It’s your house.”
“No, it’s your house.”
He sighs. “This isn’t exactly a temporary arrangement, you know. It’s not like you’re crashing on my couch for a week.”
Heat rushes up my neck.
“Right.”
He shrugs. “Mi casa es su casa.”
He goes back to chopping, and my gaze wanders to the black t-shirt stretched over his thick biceps and filled by his massive shoulders. At the way the tattoo ink of a revolver on his forearm ripples as the tight, veined skin cords with his chopping motion.
Okay, domestic Kratos is seriously a turn-on.
I’m a second away from asking him if he wants to rinse off with me. But then I chicken out. It’s something I’ve noticed as we’ve progressed to where we are now: in the church, in the dark, when he’s wearing the mask and I’m his prey, I’m bold.
I ask him to fuck me. Beg him to hurt me or chase me.
But in the cold light of day, when it’s just regular him and me, my nerves give out.
So instead I turn and head upstairs alone. In the master suite, I disrobe and pin up my hair as the tub fills with hot water and bubbles. When it’s steaming and brimming with jasmine-scented suds, I step in, groaning as I sink into the heat.
My eyes close. A surreal, meditative calmness washes over me. I don’t even realize I’ve started to nod off until I feel the water slosh around me. My eyes fly open, and the gasp locks in my throat as my gaze lands on Kratos.
…A very naked, very yummy looking Kratos as he steps into the tub opposite me and lowers his huge frame into it.
Embarrassment floods my face, but then I’m giggling as the displaced water splashes over the sides of the tub and onto the tiled floor.
“Overfilled it,” he grunts.
“I…” I chew on my lip, my face burning hotly. “I wasn’t expecting company.”
He smirks. “No one expects the Spanish Inquisition.”
“See, that’s actually a misconception—”
“I know, babygirl.”
My bottom lip retreats between my teeth again. I sink a little lower into the bubbles, enjoying the feel of the hot water teasing between my legs and rippling against my hardening nipples.
I should be in a panic right now.
Water in general is obviously a trigger. But it’s not lost on me that for the very first time since…that night…I’m sitting in water alone with a man.
Relax.
It’s not a hot tub.
There’s no party.
You’re fine.
Weirdly, it doesn’t take the self-coaching I’d expected I’d need to put my mind at ease. When I look at him across the tub, I don’t feel the anxiety or panic I assumed and expected I’d feel right now.
