Free How To Tame Beasts And Other Wild Things by A. Wilding Wells Page B

lunch?”
    “Matilda?”
    “Oh, fairy fucking dust!” I mutter as I reach over the side of the tub to grab the mostly full champagne bottle. I want to say, fuck me , but in my present state of affairs, he might take it literally. Not that I would mind. But, for the sake of saving face, I ask, “Would you care to get drunk with me?”
    He says nothing for a little longer. Is this punishment for using his bathroom or for reading his Keats? Both?
    I sink deeper in the tub when he says, “Have you placed any ads in the paper for a nanny yet? We’ll need to get you on that, since that’s why your father sent you here in the first place.”
    Get me on that? I can think of one thing we need to get me on. A nanny is not it.
    “Use your own bathroom next time. And get your own books. The bookmobile is full of ’em.”
    I cross my arms and Keats over my chest as I sit up. “My tub is occupied, so I thought it would be okay. You know, if I came in here and used yours.” I hug my knees while crossing my ankles, realizing how difficult it is to hide in clear bath water when you’re naked.
    “It’s no longer occupied,” he grumbles as he walks over to me.
                  “What did you do with them? The turtles… The boys and I…”
    He yanks the book from my hand. “Now you can come in your own bathroom.”
    A manic frozen smile forms on my lips. “What?”
    “Flushed ’em.” He walks out with a small, derisive laugh, taking my air with him as he closes the door.
    His feet clomp down the stairs. I burst into tears, picturing the tiny turtles swooshing down the toilet because of me. What was I thinking? I have to save them. I hurry out of the tub, my brain logic-free as I clutch the knob, fling the door open, and throw myself into the hallway. With the grace of a greased cow, I fly down the stairs, landing sprawled out on my belly in the kitchen.
    I groan. I can’t turn over. It would hurt too much, in every way imaginable. My bruised ego high on the list of “hurting.”
    “Imagine you’re in a dark room.” Balthazar saunters over. His boots are one inch from my face. “How do you get out?” he says.
    “You stop imagining,” I mutter after a bit of thought. I hate that I’m on my belly, on the floor, naked, at his feet.
    “I put them in the lake,” he says quietly. “I’m not that cruel, regardless of what you might think of me.”
    I peek at him as I whisper a meek, “Thanks,” while he pulls his T-shirt off his back.
    “The things you needed are on your bed. All of them.” He squats in front of me, slides his hands under my arms, then picks me up.
    I don’t even try to cover myself. While examining my bruised body, his gaze stops on my breasts more than once—three or four times maybe.
    “You okay?” he asks, taking my chin in his fingers.
    I nod, swallowing a quiet sob. I’m the face of mortification. Yay me.
    He slides his T-shirt over my head and down my body. His knuckles brush my thighs exactly where the shirt stops and the lingering feel of them twists my stomach into knots. I’m not sure why, since I’m convinced he covered me because he can’t bear to look at me any longer. If only I didn’t crave him the way I do.
    When his hands leave, I replace them with my own, playing at the edge of the shirt. Stepping closer, he tucks a chunk of hair behind my ear. I wet my lips in anticipation of something… False hope. Or is it? Am I tricking myself into thinking he’s looking at me with want?
    I exhale as I drop my head, and when my eyes move down his body, I stop, becoming aware of his abdomen as it moves. Then his chest as it expands in a deep breath. I map out his muscles and the tattoos that wrap them. God, to be this close—inches from him. So close that I smell him: sweat and a trace of something sexy, warm…musky.
    His thumbs trace my cheekbones as his fingertips rest alongside my neck. Can he feel my pulse, the way it’s starting to soar? Can he see the bob in my