Chapter 231: The Door Was Staying Closed

DOVE’S POV

Dove paid the room owner before dinner and waited while he wrote the new date into the book. Their place was theirs through Day One Hundred Thirty, paid with ordinary goods she had earned rather than a favor she would regret owing.

She should not have found a line in a grubby notebook so comforting. She did anyway.

"That’s a very pleased face for someone who just paid rent," Edrik said as they walked back.

"I’ve decided to enjoy the parts of adulthood that involve nobody moving my bed."

"Ambitious."

"I know. Try not to fall behind."

The market street was finally cooling, although the warmth still rose from the pavement through her sandals. A cook closed the lids on steaming trays. Someone dragged a table into the shade. The base had its problems, but dinner still smelled good, and Dove wanted to get home before her husbands invented another errand.

She stopped them at their own doorway.

"We are eating, washing, and staying here. If either of you discovers something urgent that involves a man being stupid, he can remain stupid until morning."

Thorne smiled. "And if it’s us?"

"Then I’ll supervise."

Edrik caught the door before it swung back. "That sounds promising."

Inside, their room looked better with the new pillows and netting. The ordinary fan moved air across the bed while the generator ran safely outside. Dove had hung the net so it could fall around the mattress without catching on the headboard. It made the bed look a little ridiculous and much less attractive to mosquitoes.

She loved it.

They ate chicken sandwiches, roasted vegetables, and fruit from the cooler after checking everything was still properly cold. Edrik took the largest plate, then looked entirely innocent when Dove counted how many pieces he had claimed.

"You keep feeding me," he said. "It’s encouraging."

"I should have read the care instructions before bringing you home."

"Too late now."

Thorne reached for the last piece and got it before either of them. Dove laughed, delighted by the smug look he gave Edrik. There were days when sharing a room with two huge men meant stepping over boots and finding no clean towel where she had left one. There were also days like this, when she could look at either of them and find someone already enjoying being there.

After dinner, Edrik brought out a deck of cards from their own things. Dove had been intending to sort a drawer. The cards were a much better idea.

"No helping her," he told Thorne.

"I haven’t done anything."

"You looked sympathetic."

Dove took her hand of cards and arranged them carefully. "Maybe I’m naturally inspiring."

"You keep looking at the wrong pile."

"Maybe the wrong pile is inspiring."

She lost the first game because Edrik watched her face too closely. She lost the second because Thorne had stopped being sympathetic and started being competitive. During the third, she slid a card beneath her leg and discovered that both husbands had apparently developed excellent vision at exactly the wrong time.

Edrik leaned back in his chair. "Show us your hands."

"That seems excessive."

Thorne reached toward her knee, waited until she laughed and shifted her leg, and picked up the hidden card.

"Terrible," he said fondly.

"I prefer inventive."

She tried to steal the card back. Edrik held it above her reach, and she ended up half across his knee before remembering he was probably enjoying this more than the game.

He was definitely enjoying it.

"Put it down," she told him.

"Ask nicely."

Dove considered him, then turned to Thorne. "Please make your annoying family member behave."

Thorne laughed so hard that he was no help at all.

She put the stolen card back herself, then took a long drink of water. Edrik slid the deck across the table and invited her to deal, apparently confident that watching her cheat was worth another game. Edrik watched with exaggerated innocence while Thorne shuffled. Losing had rarely felt this much like getting exactly what she wanted from an evening.

The laughter left her warm and a little breathless, but not because she was frightened, not because something had nearly happened and they were relieved to be alive. They were simply having a good evening. She wanted more of those badly enough to protect this one from her own urge to keep working.

Sprout offered to summarize the day’s rewards.

"Tomorrow," she told it.

"Your balances will remain available."

"Then they can wait without me."

She put the cards aside and touched Edrik’s cheek. His humor quieted without disappearing. Across the small table, Thorne watched her with the patient attention that always made her want to close the distance herself.

"Come here," she told him.

He did. Dove reached for his hand, then Edrik’s, choosing what she wanted instead of waiting for either man to guess correctly. The door was closed. Their food was put away. Nothing on the shelf needed her more than she wanted this moment for herself.

Dove’s back arches off the surface beneath her as Edrik’s hands find the hem of her shirt, peeling it upward with a slowness that makes her skin prickle with anticipation. His knuckles graze her ribs, and she shivers, a full-body tremor she can’t control, can’t hide. He doesn’t rush. He never rushes. That’s the thing about him. He takes his time like he has all of it, like the world outside doesn’t exist, like nothing matters except the next inch of skin he reveals.

The fabric passes over her head and disappears somewhere behind him. Cool air kisses her newly bared skin, but it’s replaced almost immediately by the heat of his gaze. She can feel it: heavy, deliberate, dragging down her body like a physical touch. Her breath catches.

His fingers find the clasp of her bra next. He undoes it one-handed, the bastard, and the straps slide down her arms. She lets them fall, and then she’s bare from the waist up, and the way he looks at her makes her feel completely exposed. Not just undressed. Seen. Every inch of her drawn in and catalogued and worshipped.

"You’re staring," she whispers.

"Yes." He says it like a confession. Like an admission of guilt he has no intention of repenting for.