Taming My Time-Traveling Lover in My Bed: The Savage King

The smell hit her first.

It wasn't the usual mustiness of her bedroom or the faint lavender of the sachets she kept in the linen closet. It was thick, metallic, and raw. It coated the back of her throat, pulling her up from the depths of a dreamless sleep.

Katherine opened her eyes, blinking against the darkness. The air conditioning hummed its steady rhythm, but a strange chill crept over her skin. She shivered, pulling the duvet tighter.

Her hand slid across the sheet to adjust her position, and her fingers brushed against something wet.

She froze.

It was cold. Sticky. It soaked into the fabric under her palm, clinging to her skin. A sickening slide of liquid against her knuckles.

Her heart slammed against her ribs. She snatched her hand back, sitting bolt upright in the bed. The movement made the liquid squelch beneath her.

She stared into the dark, her breath coming in short, shallow puffs. She reached out blindly, her fingers finding the brass lamp on the nightstand. She fumbled for the switch, her hands shaking so badly she nearly knocked it over.

Click.

Yellow light flooded the space, stinging her eyes. She looked down at her hand.

Red. Dark, wet, sticky red.

Blood.

A gasp tore from her throat. She scrambled backward, her spine pressing against the headboard of the massive four-poster bed. It was the bed she had bought just last week at Sotheby's—the supposed final resting place of some long-dead European king—and it dominated the attic-turned-master-suite she had renovated two years ago, the centerpiece of her private sanctuary. Now, it was a crime scene.

Her eyes drifted to the left.

A man lay beside her.

He was enormous, taking up more than half the mattress. He was dressed in what looked like a costume—dark velvet coat, gold embroidery, heavy fabrics that belonged in a museum. But the velvet was torn, and the gold thread was stained black with blood.

A low, ragged groan escaped his lips.

Panic seized her chest like a vice. Her throat closed up, choking off the scream that desperately wanted to come out. She couldn't make a sound. She could only stare as the man shifted, his face twisting in pain even in his unconscious state.

He was dying. Right there, in her bed.

She had to get out. She had to call the police.

She slid toward the edge of the mattress, moving inch by inch. Her feet touched the cold hardwood floor. She stood up, her legs trembling beneath her.

Her heel caught on the leg of a standing mirror.

Crash.

The mirror tipped over, the wood smacking against the floor with a deafening thud.

The man's eyes flew open.

They were a pale, piercing blue, the color of winter ice. And they were instantly alert, instantly violent.

Before Katherine could even draw a breath, his hand shot out. He grabbed something from the mattress beside him.

Steel flashed in the lamplight.

He struggled to sit up, hissing in pain as he propped himself against the headboard, ignoring the wound in his abdomen that immediately started gushing fresh blood. He raised a short, ornate sword, the blade gleaming with a deadly edge.

He pointed it directly at her throat.

"Who are you?" His voice was a coarse whisper, but the authority in it was absolute. It was a command, not a question.

Katherine pressed her back against the wall. The tip of the sword was less than an inch from her skin. She could feel the cold radiating from the steel.

Her mind raced, trying to process the impossible. A cosplayer? A lunatic escapee from a psych ward? A burglar who got hurt and broke into her house?

She looked at his clothes. The fabric was real velvet. The gold thread was actual gold. The sword wasn't plastic; it was forged steel. This wasn't a cheap Halloween costume.

His icy eyes swept the room, taking in the lamp, the air purifier humming in the corner, the electric outlets. Confusion and hostility warred in his gaze.

"What is this place?" he demanded, the sword inching closer. "A witch's lair?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," Katherine choked out, her voice barely a whisper. "This is my home. I don't know how you got in."

His arm trembled. The loss of blood was taking its toll. His face was ashen, his lips tinged blue. But his grip on the sword didn't waver.

He was going to kill her, or he was going to die trying.

Her mind screamed at her to run, to call the police, but another, colder thought cut through the panic. The tabloids. "Davenport Heiress in Bloody Bedroom Brawl." Her family's name, her name, dragged through the mud. The scandal would be a stain she could never wash out. That thought, the terror of public humiliation, was a strange and powerful anchor in the storm of fear. She had to survive this, but she also had to control it.

She forced herself to meet his icy stare. She raised her hands slowly, showing him her palms.

"You're bleeding out," she said, her voice steadier than she felt. "You're going to die if you don't let someone help you."

His eyes narrowed, but he didn't strike.

"Maybe," she continued, taking a tiny risk, "maybe I can help you."