TWENTY-FOUR
Chase could not remember the last time he'd slept in a bed so warm. Maybe when he'd been a boy, and shared a bed with his brothers on the cold winter nights. The sound of their even breathing had lulled him back to sleep then, but the sound of someone else breathing beside him set his every nerve on alert now.
What was the witch doing to him?
He reached out, and his hand closed over something soft and warm.
Her breast, he realised in horror, yanking his hand back, but it was too late.
"Yes, that's a breast, Sir Chase the Chaste. Your mother had them, and if you ever find the courage to propose to a woman, your wife will, too."
He'd touched fabric, not flesh, but the thin shift had left nothing to the imagination. "Why are you in my bed in nothing but your underthings?"
