Elsa

When he emerges from the closet, he is wearing a white t-shirt that stretches across his powerful chest and hugs those delicious shoulders. His lower half is covered in a pair of old jeans. Is he going to the dungeon to deal with Marco?

Sadly, the shiver that works its way over my skin is not revulsion. Not at all.

I keep my eyes averted and fork up another bite of cake. He comes over and covers my lower half with a soft blanket. Has he mistaken that shiver for a chill? I don’t correct him, too surprised at how careful he is being with me.

“Elsa,” he says,...