Page 65 of Cruel Delights

Thenwe start our shower from the top.

By the time we’re returning to his bedroom, I’m exhausted enough to sleep standing up.

Kaden slips a plain white t-shirt over my head—it smells of him, notes of cedar and soap—and tells me to get in his bed.

“You are the first woman to sleep here,” he says. His composed tone is back. So is his demeanor. “Consider it the most special exception, little lamb. But you arenotto go wandering anywhere in my home. Is that understood?”

I yawn. “I just want to sleep for an hour… or twelve.”

The left side of his mouth quirks. “Make yourself comfortable. Just don’t snore.”

“Women don’t snore. We purrr.”

“You’re pushing your luck, Lyra.”

I smile at him, then crawl onto the side of the bed that seems designated as mine. He joins me at my side, lying on his back.

We’re out for hours.

So long the next time I wake, it feels like a whole season has gone by. I glance to my side where Kaden’s still fast asleep.

I’m thirsty, hungry and I need to pee. He said not to go wandering in his penthouse, but guilt won’t let me wake him up while he’s resting. I’ll make a quick stop to the restroom and kitchen for a glass of water and then wait for him to wake up.

With my mind made up, I slink from the bed and out of the room. His penthouse feels even more scarily luxurious and intimidating when exploring alone. It almost feels like I’ll get caught red-handed any more and then put on timeout like a child.

It’s as I enter his bathroom that I notice there’s no hand towel hanging on the steel bar connected to the wall. He must’ve forgotten to put one out. I double back into the hallway where the laundry room door hangs half open.

I’ll just grab a quick one and then put it out for him.

I sneak a peek over my shoulder, double checking I’m alone. The deep silence projects far across every square foot of the luxury penthouse.

So silent, my thoughts become noise, like my brain’s desperate attempt to fill the void.

I press on. My bare feet pad against the dark wood flooring, down the hall, past several closed doors. I stop in front of the laundry room and then ease it open. When I’m certain I’m quiet enough and still alone, I slip inside.

Kaden has enough of an inventory to rival any linens shop. His selection rises feet above me, folded neatly by shade and fabric on each shelf. Ten versions of white bedsheets in increasingly higher thread counts and towels of every size in cotton-white, pearl-white, and who can forget off-white?

I shake away the smirk that teases my lips and reach for the first hand towels in reach. It doesn’t matter to me whether the towel is Turkish or Egyptian so long as it’s clean and absorbent.

I’m about to turn away to flee the scene of the crime but freeze before I can. My gaze happens to fall on the hampers arranged in a neat row along the wall. There’s four. One for colors, another for whites, another for towels, and the last for what is labeled as other.

It’s the other that holds my attention. That produces a spine-tingling ripple of shock shooting through me. I step closer and peer into the hamper.

I stare for so long you’d think I’ve never seen a shirt in need of a wash before.

But it’s not just any shirt needing a wash—it’s a shirt stained withblood.

Lots of it.

I gulp down the nausea rising up. I took my meds and haven’t eaten anything. On a good day I’m slightly nauseous; on a day where I’m looking at the blood-soaked shirt of the guy I’m dating, I’m bound to spew bile.

The last thing I want to do is be nosy. I don’t want to grow uneasy or make assumptions.

Even as my heartbeat leaps into overdrive inside my chest, I rationalize it away. Kaden’s a vascular surgeon—I’m sure he’s covered in blood all the time. He deals with blood vessels and the human circulatory system.

This is probably a Tuesday for him.

But why would he have a shirt that’s not part of his scrub uniform like this? In what scenario would he have been performing surgery in a white button-down shirt? Did he recently get hurt, or help someone off the street who was injured?