Page 203

She was still sweet. Still kind enough to bring water to a stranger her father had ordered everyone to leave thirsty. Still soft enough to cry for the man she’d only just learned was her father. Still true enough to herself to laugh, tease me, blush when I called her pretty, and stand beneath a shower taking quiet pleasure in something as simple as being clean.

And fuck me, I wanted to give her every beautiful thing she’d never had.

Not because she needed saving, but because she deserved to be spoiled rotten.

Princess.

The word had sounded almost absurd when she first told me who her mother was.

Looking at her now, it didn’t.

If Isabella let me, I would put her on a fucking pedestal and make sure she never wanted for anything again. Clothes, books, travel, some ridiculous apartment overlooking whatever part of Manhattan she decided she loved most. I’d give her every opportunity, every indulgence, every exquisite thing that made those pale blue eyes light up.

I’d worship the goddess when she wanted worshipping and spoil the princess until she forgot there had ever been another way to live.

And if she ever wanted a dangerous man on his knees in front of her, I’d go there willingly.

That realization should’ve bothered me.

No one forced Lachlan Byrnes to kneel.

But for her, I already had.

Isabella leaned forward and reached for the bar of soap resting on a small stool in the corner.

The movement broke whatever holy spell I’d been standing under and replaced it with something considerably less suitable for a church.

She turned the soap between her palms beneath the water until white lather coated her hands. Then she set the bar down and swept one hand over the opposite shoulder, working the foam slowly down her arm before returning to the elegant line of her neck.

She switched hands and repeated the motion on the other side.

There was nothing provocative about what she was doing.

That was what made it so fucking provocative.

She was simply washing herself, and I couldn’t look away.

Her palms moved over her shoulders and down her arms again, wiping away the last traces of the mountain, the compound, the violence.

Then she worked the soap between her hands again.

This time, both palms moved to her breasts.

My mouth went dry.

She cupped one, washing slowly beneath the heavy curve before her hand swept upward. Her palm passed over the nipple, leaving a trail of white foam against wet brown skin. Then she did the same to the other.

My imagination immediately replaced her hands with mine.

I swallowed hard.

I wanted to be the one bathing her.

Wanted my palms sliding over every inch of that soap-slick skin while she stood beneath the water and let me take care of her. I wanted to feel the weight of those breasts in my hands, my thumbs moving over those stiff little nipples until she made the sounds I’d already learned could wreck my self-control.

The awe hadn’t disappeared.

It had simply acquired a hard-on.