“Well,” I murmur in a shaky voice, halfway between scared out of my skin and femme fatale in a cheesy detective noir movie, “if you wanted into my bed, Mr. Satyrin, there are easier ways than offering to spend the rest of your life behind bars. A drink would’ve worked. A coffee, even. Hell, you could’ve just said ‘please.’”
The corner of his mouth twitches—just barely, just enough to crack the seriousness wide open. “Noted,” he says.
“I mean, it’s a queen, not a king, so it’s nothing to write home about. And the sheets are some kind of silky satiny thing Raymond picked out, which, it goes without saying, ick. But…” I lift one shoulder. “There’s room.”
“Room for what, specifically?” he teases, stealing my life from the Ice Room.
“I’m just saying, if you’ve come all this way…” I tug at t
