The Forbidden Throb Chapter 137

Emma's POV:

I stared at him, at the calm certainty in his face, and felt something close to despair wash over me.

*Years of celibacy. One night wouldn't be enough.*

"I should..." I gestured vaguely toward the bathroom. "Shower. Get dressed."

"I already took care of that." His voice was gentle, matter-of-fact. "Last night. You fell asleep in the bath, so I cleaned you up and got you into something comfortable."

The words took a moment to register. Then heat flooded my face as I suddenly became hyperaware of what I was wearing.

The shirt was enormous, the fabric soft and worn, the sleeves hanging past my fingertips. His shirt. And underneath...

I shifted slightly, felt the smooth slide of fabric against skin. Clean. Dry. No trace of last night's... aftermath.

Oh God.

"You..." My voice came out strangled. "You bathed me?"

"You were exhausted but insisted on taking a shower." He said it so simply, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

"The shirt's mine," he continued, as if discussing the weather. "It might be a bit large, but your dress needed... attention."

"Attention?"

"I sent it to the hotel laundry." A pause. "Though there's some damage."

The memory crashed over me—his hands fisting in delicate fabric, the sound of something tearing, his mouth hot against my collarbone as he pulled the dress down my shoulders with more urgency than care.

Structural damage. Of course.

My hands flew up to cover his mouth before he could say anything else. "Stop. Please. I don't need the detailed inventory."

His eyes crinkled at the corners, warm with amusement. I felt his lips curve against my palms—that smile, the one that made my stomach flip.

"I'll buy you a new one," he said, his voice muffled but still perfectly clear. "Something even nicer."

"It's fine," I said quickly, lowering my hands.

"I'm just a fragile, conservative girl who really, really doesn't need you reminding her of every mortifying detail from last night."

Daniel's expression softened. Low, quiet, the sound rumbling from his chest as he reached up to adjust the duvet around me.

"Understood," he murmured. "No detailed reconstructions."

But as he pulled the covers higher, my arms lifted automatically to help—and the oversized shirt shifted with the movement. The neckline gaped open, one sleeve slipped down my shoulder, and for a brief second, I felt cool air against my waist.

I froze.

Daniel went very still.

I looked down and saw what he was seeing: a narrow strip of skin exposed between the shirt's hem and where the duvet had fallen away. My waist, pale in the morning light. And marks—faint but visible, scattered across the soft skin like watercolor bruises.

His mouth. His teeth.

I yanked the shirt down, pulled the duvet up, my face burning.

"It doesn't hurt," I managed. "I just bruise easily. Always have."

"I noticed." His voice had gone rough, low. Something flickered in his expression—regret, maybe, or concern. "I'll remember that."

"Let me get you something to eat," he said abruptly, standing.

He moved toward the desk, his shoulders tense, and I was left sitting there in his oversized shirt, surrounded by his scent on the pillows, marked by his hands beneath the covers.

Then he was back, carrying a tray that looked like something from a restaurant.

He set it carefully on the bed, transforming the duvet into an impromptu table. "You need proper nutrition."

He lifted the lid off a ceramic bowl, and the smell that hit me was *incredible*. Rich, savory, with hints of pepper and something herbal. My stomach growled again, louder this time.

I didn't wait for the explanation. I grabbed the spoon and dove in. The first taste—oh God. Creamy, perfectly seasoned, the beef was tender enough to fall apart at the slightest pressure.

Each spoonful soothed my throat, warmed me from the inside out.

"Good?" Daniel asked, though his slight smile suggested he already knew.

"Mmph," I managed around another mouthful. "Amazing. Thank you."

He just watched me eat, that fond expression on his face—the one that made me feel simultaneously cherished and self-conscious. Like I was doing something extraordinary by simply enjoying breakfast.

I paused, spoon halfway to my mouth. "Wait. Everyone's been complaining about the hotel food all week. How did you manage to find something this good?"

"When was your last meal, Emma?" His eyebrows rose slightly.

The question caught me off guard. I thought back—yesterday had been a blur of crying in gardens and dramatic revelations and riding the metro with my heart in pieces.

"Um. Coffee at that café near the university?" I offered. "And... I think there was a petit four. "

Daniel's expression did something complicated. "That was yesterday afternoon. No wonder everything tastes good."

"That's not—" I took another spoonful, let the flavors settle on my tongue.

Rich beef stock, the subtle sweetness of caramelized onions, black pepper and celery and something else I couldn't quite identify. "No. This is legitimately delicious. Like, better than what I've had at actual restaurants."

I looked up at him, suddenly suspicious. "Which restaurant made this? Because I'm absolutely recommending it to everyone. "

Daniel hesitated before speaking, "I made it."

The words hung in the air between us.

I blinked. "What?"

"This morning." He gestured vaguely toward the kitchenette. "The suite has a small stove. Limited equipment, but functional enough."

"You..." My brain was struggling to process this. "You *made* this? At—" I glanced at the clock on the nightstand. "What time did you even wake up?"

"Early." That slight smile again. "You needed proper food. "

I stared down at the bowl—at the tender beef that fell apart at the lightest pressure, the precise balance of flavors.

Something hot and tight formed in my chest, rising up my throat until my eyes started to burn.

"Emma?" Daniel leaned forward, concern immediate in his voice. "What's wrong? Are you feeling ill?"

I shook my head, not trusting my voice. A tear escaped anyway, tracking hot down my cheek.

He shifted closer, his hand coming up to tilt my chin so he could see my face properly.

"Hey." His voice had gone impossibly soft. "Talk to me. Where does it hurt?"

I shook my head again, harder this time, and did something that surprised both of us—I leaned forward and pressed my face against his shoulder, rubbing my cheek against the crisp cotton of his shirt like a cat seeking comfort.

"It doesn't hurt," I mumbled against the fabric. "I'm not sad."

His hand came up to cradle the back of my head, uncertain. "Then why—"

"I'm happy." The words came out thick, muffled. "I'm so happy I don't know what to do with it."

I felt him go still. Then his arms came around me properly, one hand stroking down my back in that soothing rhythm he'd used earlier.

"Thank you," I whispered. "Thank you for this. For everything."

I used to watch romantic movies and not understand it—what kind of love could make someone feel like the world ending wouldn't matter? Like nothing else existed except this one person, this one moment?

But sitting here in Daniel's arms, tasting beef and cinnamon on my tongue, still wearing his shirt and surrounded by evidence of his care—something in my chest felt crystallized. Fragile and precious, like spun sugar.

Daniel shifted, one hand coming up to steady the bowl before it could tip. Then he pressed a kiss to my temple—soft, lingering.

"I only have one Mrs. Prescott," he murmured against my skin. "Can't have her skipping meals and wasting away. Who else would I take care of?"

That made me cry harder. Stupid, messy tears that I couldn't control.

He made a low sound—somewhere between amusement and concern—and pulled back just enough to see my face.

"You're going to make yourself sick," he said, but there was no real reproach in it. Just that infinite patience, that gentle fondness. "Come here."

He used his thumb to wipe the tears from my cheeks, the gesture so tender it made my chest ache.

"If you really want to thank me," he said, voice dropping to something more intimate, "you could show me."

I blinked up at him through wet lashes. "Show you?"

"Actions, baby." His mouth curved. "Not just words."