Ruthless Savior - Julia Sykes Page 0,51
to him.
So far, I’d managed to resist the dangerous compulsion to submit to our fiery chemistry. Barely. I hadn’t fully opened myself to him yet, and he hadn’t forced himself on me.
He won’t abuse me. I’m safe with him. The tempting reassurance played through my mind for the hundredth time. Why shouldn’t I stay? Why shouldn’t I just give us what we both want?
My mother’s flat, lifeless eyes flashed through my thoughts, and my stomach lurched when I remembered the flowering red stain on her cheery yellow dress.
No. I couldn’t trust myself. I couldn’t trust my judgment.
Raúl had said it would take a while for me to recover from my trauma and get my head clear again. I believed he was right. It was too soon to make a decision that would be so permanent. Because once I chose to stay—once I fully surrendered to Raúl—I knew deep in my soul that he would never let me go.
“Something worrying you?” His deep, rumbling voice caressed my skin, layering over the warmth of the afternoon sun.
I shook my head and offered him a small smile. “Just a bad memory. I’m okay.” It was part of the truth, at least.
He straightened from his crouch beside his beloved masochist chilies, standing to his full, imposing height. A contented smile curved my lips. I loved being cloaked in his protective shadow.
He held out his hand to me. I immediately grasped it, so he could pull me to my feet.
“I have something to show you,” he announced.
I beamed and followed where he led. I should feel a pang of guilt for accepting so many lavish gifts from my criminal captor, but my giddy excitement was untainted by dark emotion. My stomach fizzed with anticipation, and I practically bounced along beside him.
The grin he turned on me was sharper than simple fondness; he found triumphant, savage pleasure in my joy, as though each burst of excitement was a ruthless victory for him.
I should’ve been alarmed at his open possessiveness, but it was becoming harder to find any thrill of fear over it. After suffering so much agony at the hands of cruel men, being showered with intensely personal, thoughtful gifts was like a dream.
Raúl provided for me, going far above and beyond simple necessities.
The rope around my heart tugged, tethering me to him more tightly.
I noted the direction of our path—it would lead us directly to Raúl’s mysterious workshop. Sometimes, he disappeared in there for hours at a time, and he refused to tell me what he was crafting. Although I burned with curiosity, I didn’t press him to tell me if he didn’t want to. He always emerged in a deep state of relaxation, his eyes heavy-lidded from expending some of the savage energy that built inside him in between bouts of physical exertion.
I relished our time in the spa afterwards. We’d soak in the hot tub, and I’d rub the soreness from his bulging, mouthwatering muscles. Soothing him was the least I could do to reciprocate the care he showed for my wellbeing.
And I liked touching him. Skin-to-skin contact relaxed my entire being like a sedative.
Since the night I’d awakened from the grips of the dark dream about my mother’s murder, I hadn’t suffered a single nightmare. Raúl’s strong arms protected me, even in sleep.
A happy sigh blew from my lips when we reached the door to his workshop. “You’re finally going to reveal the secrets of your man cave?” I teased.
He paused, and the slightly cruel tilt to his smile taunted me. His low hum rolled through my body, hitting my core as an intense, stimulating vibration.
His cocky smirk twisted. He knew exactly what he was doing to me, drawing out my anticipation and pulling me deeper into his thrall.
“Maybe lost little lambs don’t belong in my man cave. If you don’t want to see it, we can go back into the house.”
“No, no,” I insisted breathlessly, my hand tightening around his. “I want to see. Please?”
His smile softened, and he tucked a stray lock of hair behind my ear before opening the door and ushering me inside.
When we stepped over the threshold, my jaw dropped. I’d never seen this kind of heavy-duty machinery, but the massive sledgehammers and jagged scraps of metal indicated what he used the space for.
“Metalworking?” I recalled the rigid, iron furniture that added to the austere aesthetic of his home—from the glass-topped tables in his whiskey and cigar room to his imposing king-size bed.
My delighted giggle bubbled into