FULL NOVELXO His Pretty Little Burden: Chapter 9
‘SHE’S FUCKED, MAN.’
I bounce out of bed, onto my feet, the words striking hot pokers into my chest, stealing slumber from me again.
Searching the room, I settle on Jasmine as she snores lightly from the mattress in the corner. Wanting to bleach the words from my mind but dead set on remembering them long enough to log. I glance at the clearly ineffective dreamcatcher hanging from the wooden post.
Squinting at it, as though my peaceful slumber is meant to be within its delicately woven web, I grumble under my breath. ‘Where were you just now?’
After adding, ‘she’s fucked, man’ to my notebook, I pull a white dressing gown over my nude-coloured silk sleep shorts and singlet. Slipping out to stretch my legs for a moment, I know that lurking in the back of my reasoning is the misguided hope he is awake again.
When I open my bedroom door, Henchman Jeeves isn’t outside, so I navigate my way down the stairs and stop before the French doors. Through the window, the moon illuminates the sky above the rippling water.
A light catches the corner of my eye.
Twisting, I glance down a dark hallway to my side at the white glow cutting through the gaps framing a door.
‘It’s too close to the warehouse,’ I hear a man say before a deep voice mutters something inaudible. The proceeding silence curls around me, sending my pulse into a steady gallop in my neck. I didn’t really want to see him, anyway. My feet take a step backwards, my mind deciding it’s time to retreat to my room, my legs agree they are adequately stretched.
‘Fawn, come in here.’
Fuck.
I gape at the closed door ahead. Is he a fucking X-Man or something? Can’t one of them see through walls? I swallow down the knot in my throat as my bare feet guide me towards the rectangular beaming light.
The door opens for me before I can reach for the handle. Within the doorframe, a gorgeous young man in his twenties grins at me. A small cut below his eye betrays the youthful, almost angelic features. His intense blue eyes, tousled dark hair, and strong body resemble the man sitting behind the desk opposite me. I feel safe presuming they are related in some way. I remember Jasmine’s words: ‘His brothers are like the District Kardashians.’
‘So, you’re Fawn. I’m Xander, the grumpy prick behind the desk’s smarter and cuter brother.’ He steps back to allow me access to the room while my feet once again move forward of their own accord.
I smile politely. ‘Xander, like from Buffy? He was always my favourite.’
He grins. ‘I’m going to pretend I don’t have a female best mate who made me watch every episode growing up and say, who?’
I laugh a little as I take another small step into the room, giving it a quick perusal. It’s a large office with a huge rich wooden desk and seating for several people.
My heart fills with airy arousal when I settle on Clay Butcher’s powerful gaze, seeing him more relaxed than he’s previously been, and yet, no less intimidating.
Leaning back in one of those massive boss chairs with his tie loosened, his top button undone, his hair deliciously mussed, and the black veins of a tattoo peeking out from his chest, he looks decadent in the most indecent way.
Kudos, Satan.
Warmth pools low inside me, lower than it should, and I wriggle at the knowledge of what lays beneath his suited professional façade.
‘I’m sorry. I wasn’t snooping,’ I say, holding his gaze like he requested I do. ‘I was just stretching my legs.’
He smiles softly, a trained smile not unlike the one I saw on his ridiculously handsome face in that news article. The District Daddy. ‘Your apology implies you haven’t been making yourself comfortable here?’
His words shake me slightly. ‘Ah. Should I be?’
‘You may be here for a while, Fawn. Your father isn’t in the country.’ I clutch at my stomach as it growls. I mutter, ‘Fuck,’ under my breath. The sound is so loud that his eyes drop to where I nurse the area. My cheeks ignite, embarrassment wrapping itself around my every wince, every curve of my lips. I cringe. ‘Sorry.’
Xander laughs, moving over to the small couch in the corner of the room. Sitting down, he says, ‘Sorry? For what? Being hungry?’
‘You didn’t eat your dinner,’ Clay mentions pointedly. ‘Don’t you like fish?’
Feeling defensive and ungrateful, I impulsively say, ‘I don’t need you to feed me. I’m here to see my dad. That’s all. I’m not your responsibil—’
He stands and my words freeze on my tongue as his eyes narrow. Towering above me even from the other side of the desk, he liquifies my knees and legs.
‘I’ll indulge this conversation once and once only,’ he states, closing the gap between us before leaning back on his desk, dropping slightly to just above eye level. He grips the polished wood either side of his hips and looks me dead in the eye while I try to remember how lungs work. ‘You are my responsibility. While you are under my roof, you will eat three meals a day. You will make yourself comfortable. If you don’t like something, use your voice, say it. You will not apologise unless you have done something wrong. The word sorry carries no significance when it’s used to hide a lack of confidence.’
I swallow. Where I should feel shame or anger over being schooled, I actually feel … noticed? My mother used to tell me I apologised too often, whereas my foster mother made the word my soundtrack.
I nod, stiffly. ‘I understand, Mr Butcher. Thank you.’
A smile builds across his masculine features, and God, it’s not a practised smile, but a real one. This one soars into my heart. I like it too much. The curve of his lips—subtle and confident. The way his eyes respond—softening, flittering with small amounts of praise.
‘Sir,’ he purrs. The word carries weight as his tone drops, hitting me with a gravelly aftershock that creates a pulse in places it really shouldn’t. Places that cause me to shift, squirm. His eyes drop to watch my feet.
He has a wife.
‘May I be excused, Sir? I’d love some orange juice.’ I exhale fast, somehow breathless, feeling his energy around me, too intoxicating, too close. The strands of his attention and the dizzying affliction of being held accountable are addictive.
Ignore this feeling.
To him, you’re an obligation.
This is just hospitality—fucked-up, controlling hospitality.
Nothing else.
I back up.
His mouth is now a provocative tick, tilting at the corner as though he can read my body language. ‘Absolutely.’ Forcing myself to turn from him, I go to leave, but his voice stills me. ‘No cake, Fawn. Not without having had dinner.’
I sink my teeth into my bottom lip—where there should be shame, annoyance, I feel immensely seen. I wrap my arms around myself. ‘That seems fair.’
‘I’m glad you think so.’
With that, I stride away from him. Air like a gale-force wind beats into my lungs, expanding them to aid my shallow breaths.