Chapter 92

Her bra and panties were soaked through. Not a good idea to leave them on. Mirabelle squirmed when he reached for the bra clasp, but his voice cut through the fog again—low, steady, close to her ear. ‘It’s me. Ashton. You’re safe now.’ Her breath hitched, then she went still. He stripped off the last of the soaked fabric, towelled her off again, and reached for the change of clothes. A white dress shirt and suit trousers, both at least two sizes too big. They were his. There were women in the house—his brother’s wife, his stepmother—but the idea of Mirabelle wearing anything of theirs made something primal crawl under his skin. He slipped the shirt over her shoulders, buttoned it up, rolled the cuffs. The trousers he folded at the waist and cinched loosely with one of his ties. She looked like she’d wandered out of his closet half-asleep, hair damp, skin flushed, drowning in layers of fabric. Her eyes were barely open. She was somewhere else entirely. Ashton stood and shifted his weigh