The light of the following morning was soft and hazy, filtering through the heavy drapes of Roman's master suite in long, golden fingers that danced across the dark silk sheets. The room felt like a cocoon, insulated from the rest of the world and the looming threats of Princes and lawyers.
Violet was the first to stir, her mind groggily drifting back to consciousness. She felt the familiar, heavy warmth of Roman's body behind her, his arm a solid, protective weight draped across her waist. His hand was splayed over her stomach, his fingers twitching slightly as he breathed against the nape of her neck. It was the most peaceful she had felt in years, but as she shifted, she realized that Roman was already partially awake- and his body was reacting to her presence with a primal, insistent enthusiasm.
She felt the firm, unmistakable pressure of his morning arousal pressing against the curve of her backside. It was a bold, heat-radiating reminder of the man he was and the hunger he harbored for her.
"Roman," she whispered, her voice a thick, sleep-honeyed rasp. She tried to move forward, but his arm tightened instantly, pulling her back until there wasn't a whisper of air between them.
"Don't," he grumbled into her hair, his voice vibrating through her entire body. "The sun is too loud. Stay right here."
His hand began to wander, his palm sliding upward from her waist, tracing the line of her ribs with a slow, agonizing deliberation. His touch was electric, his calloused skin dragging against the silk of her nightdress. He wasn't being a brute this morning; he was being a thief, stealing her resolve one inch at a time.
"We have to get up," Violet murmured, though she found herself leaning back into him, her head tilting to give him better access to her neck. "Adam will be up soon. And you have a Prince to dismantle."
"The Prince can wait in the lobby," Roman countered. He nuzzled into the crook of her shoulder, his lips ghosting over her skin. "I'm busy researching. I'm thinking... Seraphina? No, I used that one. How about Sabrina? Does the Songbird have a 'Sabrina' hidden in her cage?"
Violet let out a soft, shaky laugh as his hand moved lower, his fingers grazing the tops of her thighs. "Sabrina? Really? I'm not a teenage witch, Roman. Try again. You're failing miserably."
"I find I don't mind failing if this is the penalty," he whispered. He began to trail slow, wet kisses up the column of her throat, his teeth occasionally grazing her skin in a way that made her toes curl. His hand continued its wandering, bold and possessive, slipping slightly beneath the hem of her nightdress.
Violet felt a rush of heat flood her system. The friction of him against her, the scent of his skin, and the calculated wandering of his hands were breaking down the walls she had built so carefully. She felt herself becoming heavy, her body pliant and aching for more of him. She was becoming aroused, a low, pulsing heat settling in her belly that made her breath hitch.
"Roman, no," she breathed, though her hand had found his forearm, her fingers digging into his muscle rather than pushing him away. "You promised. Hands to yourself."
"My hands are exactly where they want to be," he murmured, his voice dropping to a dark, velvet depth. He turned her in his arms, pinning her beneath him. His eyes were blown wide, dark with a morning lust that was as fierce as his protective rage. He braced himself on his elbows, his chest hovering just inches from hers. "You're giving in, Violet. I can feel it. Your heart is racing like a bird's."
"It's the hangover," she lied, her eyes fluttering shut as he lowered his head, his lips hovering just a fraction of an inch from hers.
"Liar," he whispered.
He descended, his lips finding the sensitive skin just below her ear, nipping softly. The sensation sent a jolt through her, and she let out a traitorous, soft moan, her hands sliding up to his shoulders. The heat between them was becoming a living thing, a pressurized force that threatened to shatter the last of her boundaries. Roman's hands were no longer just wandering; they were claiming, his touch a scorched-earth policy on her skin.
CLICK. CREAK.
The heavy oak door swung open with a cheerful, rhythmic thud against the wall.
"VIOLET! DADDY! LOOK!"
The bed jolted as a small, pajama-clad missile launched himself onto the mattress, landing squarely in the valley between Roman's legs and Violet's hip. The heat in the room vanished instantly, replaced by the smell of apple juice and the chaotic innocence of a five-year-old.
Roman let out a long, tortured groan, burying his face in the crook of Violet's neck for one last, desperate second before pushing himself up. He looked at the door, then back at his son, his expression a mixture of paternal love and pure, unadulterated sexual frustration.
"I need to start locking that door," Roman muttered, his voice sounding like he'd swallowed glass. "Or I need to buy a moat. A big one. With alligators."
Violet scrambled to sit up, her face a vivid, burning crimson as she smoothed her hair and pulled the duvet up to her chin. "Good morning, Adam," she squeaked, her voice an octave higher than usual.
Adam didn't notice the tension. He crawled over Roman's lap and plopped himself down right in front of Violet, his big blue eyes wide and shining with a specific, heartbreaking hope.
"Violet," he said, reaching out to tug on a lock of her blonde hair. "I missed you yesterday. When you were at the pool, you looked like a princess in the blue. But you didn't sing."
He scrambled closer, his small hands resting on her knees through the blankets. "Can you sing for me? Please? I miss hearing your voice. I miss when you would dress up in the pretty sparkly dresses and sing the songs that make the room feel like it's dancing. Please, Violet? Just one princess song?"
Violet felt the last of her arousal and embarrassment fade, replaced by a profound, aching tenderness. She looked at Adam, then flicked her gaze toward Roman.
Roman was watching her, his frustration subsiding into a quiet, intense gaze. He looked at her as if he were seeing the heart of her for the first time- not the fugitive, not the nanny, but the woman who held his son's world in her hands. He nodded once, a silent encouragement.
"Of course I can sing for you, bunny," Violet whispered, her voice softening.
She took a breath, the morning air in the room suddenly feeling sacred. She didn't have a microphone, and she wasn't wearing purple velvet, but as she began to hum a low, soulful melody- a lullaby about a star that found its way home, the master suite seemed to transform.
Her voice was a raw, beautiful gift, filling the corners of the room and silencing the ghosts of the night before. Adam leaned his head against her shoulder, his eyes closing in contentment.
Roman stayed exactly where he was, his hand resting on the edge of the bed, watching her sing. He didn't say a word, but his eyes promised her one thing: he would make sure she never had to stop singing again. The Prince might have bought her voice once, but Roman Thorne was going to be the one who made sure the world actually heard it.