whoever is sending me signs will help me free them.â
âWhat if they donât?â
âThatâs a bridge to cross when I reach it. I must follow my destiny, my fate. Just as you must follow yours.â
He smiled. âI donât believe in fate.â
She smiled back. âFate does not require belief.â
Obviously.
He snorted softly. âFair enough.â
They remained as they were, poised with the room spread out between them, Ryan reclining, his jeans open at the top, the intriguing arrow between hip bones and muscle pulling her gaze down.
âDonât you get tired, not sleeping?â he asked, his voice rough and deep.
Sabelle jerked her gaze up and found him watching her, his eyes filled with male awareness. She could almost taste the tension sparking in the quiet.
âWhen our bodies require rest, weâre sedated,â she answered, the words rendered meaningless by that look in his eye. âBut that sleep comes without dreams and so it feels . . . counterproductive.â
He nodded slowly, taking it all in. Probably seeing right through her.
âEven then someone monitors our breathing, making sure we stay dreamless.â
She wished heâd say something, but he only continued to watch her with those knowing eyes. They dared and coaxed, teased and seduced. He was so . . . manly. All muscle and bone, hard angles, rough edges.
She glanced around the room with feigned interest, trying to ignore the vulnerable way she felt.
âSometimes huâpeople . . . I mean normal people . . . they sleep together,â she said, as if it had just occurred to her. As if she hadnât fantasized about it many times over.
âSometimes,â Ryan agreed in that velvet deep voice. It curled in her stomach and spread like a disease until her whole body felt it, that timbre, that soft rasp.
She cleared her throat and went on. âCouples. Mothers with their children. Siblings . . . friends.â
His eyes glittered. âDo you want to sleep with me, Sabelle?â he asked softly.
More than anything.
She shook her head and tried to imitate one of those laughs that said, Donât be silly . But the only thing silly in the room was her.
Ryan stilled, his gaze so hot that she felt it against her skin. His voice dark as honey, warm as amber, he said, âCome here.â
Quickly, she took a step forward just in case he changed his mind, but paused when she realized how much that hasty movement had given away.
His brows went up in that way of his. The one that dared her to deny what he already knew. It was a hard look, a dangerous, masculine look that burned like a hunger inside her and pulled her to him like a towing line.
âI donât know . . .â she mumbled, and she didnât know what she didnât know. The bold being whoâd dared to escape her chains had deserted her, leaving Sabelle exposed and uncertain.
âSuit yourself.â
He closed his eyes and adjusted his pillows, as if he didnât care what choice she made. But there was tension in his body, in the cadence of his breath. He was waiting for her. Nervously, she perched on the edge of the bed.
Ryan didnât move or give an indication that heâd felt the dip in the mattress or her presence beside him. Tentatively, she swung her legs up and curled on her side, as far from him as she could, trying to cause as little disturbance as possible. But heâd pinned the covers at the bottom with his legs and she was cold.
Ryan let out a weary breath, rolled over, hooked an arm around her, and pulled her back against his chest, fitting her into the curve of his body. His arm went beneath her pillow, his leg between hers and his hand curled over her ribs. He was warmer than any blanket, so big and strong that she felt safe for the first time in maybe . . . ever.
âGo to sleep, Sabelle. Iâll