Burn shut the door to his room, the dress that the servants had procured for him in hand.

He couldn’t recall what he'd said exactly when he'd asked for it, only that his request had been a garbled mess of, "Get a dress. For sleeping," delivered in the flattest, most uninspired tone he could muster, with an expression to match.

He couldn’t remember, so when he saw the servants exchanging giggles as they handed him the dress, he felt a bit like a man lost in his own house.

Once behind closed doors, he froze, the simple task of deciding whether to lock the door or not making his brain work overtime. This simple mental task consumed so much energy that an error message window seemed to infinitely duplicate itself in his mind.

CLICK!

In the end, he locked it.

Adopting an expression dark enough to give the night sky a run for its money, glowing eyes and a body as rigid as a flagpole, he stared at the innocent key in his hand as if it had personally offended him.

He then removed it from the keyhole and unceremoniously dumped it on a table. There was no turning back now.

"They got it?"

The question floated to him on a stream of melodious notes emanating from the bed. As he swiveled around, he found Morgan in a state of near undress, her hand outstretched, awaiting the new garment.

This woman… was she oblivious to the audible click of the door being locked? It was as if her self-preservation instincts were on an extended vacation, despite being fully aware that she was in a room belonging to a grown ass man—emphasis on man.

Burn did more than just stare at her. Yes, he handed over the dress, but he also maintained a steady, unblinking gaze. Because, well, why not?

As she turned towards him to accept the dress, her face still maintained the previous angry look, clearly barely concealing her impatience with his mere presence, let alone his persistent stare.

"Go change," she commanded, her gaze sliding to his blood-stained house robe. When he remained rooted to his spot, as immovable as a centuries-old oak, she punctuated her command with a sharp, "Now."

Burn's eyebrows relaxed their furrowed stance. He shrugged off his robe, making a beeline for the bathroom, with the intention of erasing the bloody trace from his skin. However, he found his acute hearing becoming a curse, as it honed in on the noises emanating from the vicinity of his bed.

Rustling.

Typically, he couldn’t care less about having company in his room, but today—

Emerging once more into his room, he found her seated at his neglected dressing table, running his hairbrush—which she had presumably discovered in one of the drawers—through her hair.

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The sight was oddly soothing; it painted an illusory picture that she was always a part of his room. There she was, giving a purpose to a piece of furniture he'd never used, but nonchalantly using one of his items simply because she hadn't brought her own.

And then there was the dress—the servants' giggles suddenly made sense. The dress was white, yes, but it was that kind of dress.

A long, pajama dress, the fabric connected here and there by delicate laces. The design was simple, but those laces permitted tantalizing glimpses of the fair skin beneath. The material looked light and thin, yet appeared to be soft.

Fuck.

Catching sight of his reflection in the mirror, her expression soured. But let's be honest, an angry beauty is still a beauty, especially when said beauty was of the celestial variety.

Burn blinked once, internally accepting that this is his life now. He wanted to keep it like this forever.

"If you read my mind, you'd know that I was joking," Burn said, finally breaking his silence.

TAP!

Morgan set his hairbrush down on the table. The sound it made was so sharp and ominous that Burn almost expected to see a crack in the table. Who knew that the act of placing a hairbrush could carry such malicious undertones?

"Did you?" Morgan retorted, her voice tinged with a healthy dose of sarcasm. "Okay, I'll try to read your mind all the time. As if it matters whether you're joking or not."

Because, clearly, deciphering Burn's sense of humor was at the top of her to-do list. Not that they had the same sense of humor or anything.

Burn's chest was a cocktail bar serving up a potent mix of sweet and sour. He was in the wrong, and the guilt of hurting her was a bitter pill to swallow. Yet there was a perverse satisfaction in that guilt, knowing she hadn't thought of betraying him.

So, when she stood and burrowed into his bed, he followed suit, pulling the curtain shut behind him. She seemed set on sleeping away the day, yet he had this nagging feeling that allowing things to continue this way was a one-way ticket to Miseryville.

"You’re right. I was wrong, Morgan. I am sorry," he conceded.

"Good that you know you’re wrong," Morgan shot back before his words had even fully taken flight.

Clearly, he still had some groveling to do.

“I will make it up to you. I’ll call the tailors and merchants tomorrow. Pick whatever you like,” Burn offered.

But Morgan's eyes flared with offence, and Burn felt like he'd stepped onto a landmine. He was reminded that Morgan wasn't like the other women he'd entertained.

Suddenly, he was hit with the alarming realization that he was actually tempted to treat her like one of them—

Was he beginning to see her as—

“Forget it. I don’t want anything from you,” Morgan cut him off, presenting him with a view of her back.

Fantastic, he'd reached new heights in pathetic.

Feeling like the king of Pathetica, he pulled her closer, enveloping her in a hug from behind. He felt wrong, but then again, wasn't she the one who was truly wrong? In a different sense, of course.

From a woman as righteous and just as her, everything she did seemed wrong through his skewed lens.

It was wrong for her to contemplate sacrificing herself for the people—because he saw it as a betrayal. It was wrong for her to force him through the loops again, all in the name of fixing things. It was wrong because it was ineffective and unnecessary.

Everything was wrong. She must have been so frustrated with his inability to appreciate anything she did.

“Do whatever you want,” Burn whispered, tightening his hold on her. “I guess I’ll match your energy and let you do whatever you want, just like you let me do whatever I wanted.”

“Go crazy, or whatever. Kick the bucket, or whatever. Just do your thing,” Burn said. “I’ve got your back. Apparently, it’s the only choice left in my playbook.”

Demand.

Once upon a time, she had asked him if he was prepared for the demands she might make. Well, it seemed he was prepared now.

"I can do whatever I want?" she whispered.

"Yeah," Burn confirmed.

"No take-backs?"

"None."

She pivoted to face him again, her blue eyes shimmering like sapphires under the filtered sunlight seeping through the closed curtains.

Slowly, tantalizingly, her fingers traced his jawline, teasing it until it hit that sweet spot between ticklish and electric, just the perfect amount.

"Then, can I..."

"Yes. Please. Let's do it."