In My Arms You Shall Hide

Chapter 25

Dorian

D arren grimaces at me as I hand him a mock-up proposal to look over. He takes the folder from me, surveying an old proposal for a joint implant patent with a wary look of disgust. Typically, proposals and sales aren’t part of our scope of work, but I recently made a silent cut to the payroll, and now we’re suffering the consequences.

Four days in the rearview, the callouses on my hands and the ache in my back still attest to those consequences. I don’t doubt that Raney and Cory, who spent most of the weekend helping me conceal the crime, have similar aches and pains. Even with the lingering physical—and the persistent mental—toll it poses, I’d do it all again.

Perhaps my only regret is Paul’s cruelty in how he approached Raney’s mother’s—and Cory’s aunt’s—death. Neither one got closure; they only had salt rubbed into the wounds. But in a way, closure can’t be given to you by the person who wronged you, and they’ve learned that the hard way.

As have I.

More than the reasons for my doubled workload, I never touched Paul in the past because his death was Raney’s and Cory’s to claim. That, and with him rotting in the ground now, he’d never officially take the blame for killing Annette Ward, and Raney would unofficially, permanently bear it.

But in the end, he forced our hand.

I know that there’s a burning sense of injustice in my cousin’s heart. She’ll never have a normal life now. Even so, she’s been a good sport over the last few days. The only one not resigned to Raney’s fate is Katherine, who I heard shouting about how unfair it is the second Raney shared it with her over breakfast this morning.

Katherine.

It’s hard to focus on the directions I’m giving Darren regarding the proposal. There’s a bittersweet vindication over Paul’s well-deserved, brutal death but also a deep, almost grateful, satisfaction that she stayed. It all but consumes me. When the others told her to run, I wouldn’t have blamed her for running back to her mother, the police station, anywhere but back to me.

But the estate is her home now. That night, I saw in her eyes that she knew as much.

If I hadn’t been swamped with work and body disposal the last few days, I’d probably spent every second with her, relishing this change of heart, heaping affection onto her.

But here I am, dealing with the aforementioned consequences.

My phone buzzes in my pocket once Darren takes the proposal. I fish it out and glance at it to see Clancy Dummer’s name on the screen. I speak with Tacron Global’s CEO occasionally, but never so frequently that the abrupt call doesn’t give me pause.

“I have all my notes in the margins,” I explain to him. “If you want to go ahead and write a report based on those notes, we’ll use it to address the team tomorrow.”

Darren nods and, without a dismissal, vanishes from my office.

I answer Clancy’s call and hold the phone to my ear. “Hello?”

“Where the hell is your uncle, Dorian?”

I might’ve worried about the direct question if it came from someone else. It’s not unusual with Clancy. I respect his ability to shoot straight to the point without pretenses or asking how I’ve been for the sake of it.

“I have no clue where he is.”

“He hasn’t been in the office since Friday and hasn’t been answering calls or emails. I assumed you knew your family’s whereabouts.”

I lean back in my chair and glance at the calendar desk-mat beneath my keyboard. It took longer than expected for anyone to notice Paul’s gone missing. Given Clancy’s casualness, it seems no one suspects that his corpse is taking up space in my backyard.

“Is that right?” I reply. “That makes sense. He’s been AWOL, and I’ve been handling his work this week. He even bailed on the dinner with Sanderson. You know Paul. He hates my guts—I’m the last person he’d check in with.”

“Tilly in accounting said he wasn’t answering her texts. They reached out to his emergency contact; that contact has now filled out a missing person’s report.”

I feel my brow wrinkle. Who the hell would he even put down, given our dwindling family tree? “Emergency contact?”

“His housekeeper, apparently,” he responds with an edge of pity. “Kind of shocked it wasn’t you. I know you two don’t like each other, but Christ.”

I turn in my chair to glance through the tinted windows at the streets below. The less I say now, the better off in the long run; it’s a lesson I’ve committed to memory after the death of my father.

“You sure he didn’t mention anything to you before all this?” Clancy asks, somewhat impatiently.

Under normal circumstances, I would have kicked up a storm, especially since his absence forces me to divvy up his work. I would have used it to nail him to the wall and hold it over his head to undermine his authority—or, at least, that would’ve been my intention if I were innocent. Otherwise, I would have celebrated him going missing.

In my current situation, I don’t want to draw a line straight to myself.

“Honestly, no. Even if Paul should report his vacations to me, he rarely does. You know how much he hates me.”

“Eh, I guess that’s true.” Clancy sighs, and I imagine him raking a hand through his hair. Undoubtedly, he hoped to unload whatever guilt he feels over a staff member vanishing into thin air onto me. “HR will probably go around today to catch everyone up to speed. You know, if you see something, say something type of deal.”

“I thought that was for airport security.”

Clancy doesn’t find my glibness amusing. “I know that you don’t like him, Dorian, but don’t start popping champagne like an asshole. That’s your family.”

“I didn’t pick him, Clancy, and he wouldn’t have picked me either.”

“Well, if there’s anyone who should sympathize, it’s you.”

Although he has a point, I’m not about to try and throw on self-pity out of nowhere. Yes, if I wasn’t acutely aware of Katherine’s safety, I might have been very sympathetic to another person’s disappearance. I can’t undo what’s been done; from now on, I need to ensure no one links the two disappearances. It wouldn’t be hard to do if anyone looked closely.

“The difference here is that Katherine likely took a Greyhound and skipped the city. Paul might be stuck in a ditch somewhere after another bar fight.”

People die in the Ward family far more often than any other family. It’s a miracle he made it so long without taking a bullet between the eyes.

“Paul’s troubled, Dorian. It doesn’t mean he deserves whatever’s going on with him.”

Maybe killing Raney and Cory’s family didn’t earn a death sentence from me. But putting Katherine at risk did.

“Well, more police may come around to ask questions at the office,” he explains. “I’ll still be out of town for a few days, so don’t be alarmed if detectives come poking around.”

“Don’t worry. I’m familiar with how it goes.”

“I guess you would be,” he grumbles. “Because of this matter, I’m cutting my vacation short to deal with Paul’s responsibilities.”

“Hmm. It’s a weird coincidence that you’re not here, and he’s gone missing. Should we be looking for him in your basement, Clancy?”

“You’re not funny,” he snaps before hanging up.

The first thing I do when I get home is shower. I spent four long days working well into the night at the office, following an all-nighter where my family helped me conceal yet another bleak secret. Burying Paul Ward didn’t faze them, but I suspect Katherine doesn’t appreciate the fate that befell him, even if she didn’t see all of it.

God, I miss her. I spent so many hours with my nose down that it hasn’t occurred to me that I haven’t spent any time with her since the night I took her to bed. Now that the workload has been dealt with—for now—and Paul dealt with—for good, I intend to check on her. I’ve been especially negligent to her and plan to remedy it.

I wash myself up before getting dressed again. I can think of no better way to spend my evening than at her side.

As I jog down the steps, I sweep back my damp hair with a hand. I don’t find Katherine in her usual places—the parlor, the sunroom, the dining room, or the kitchen. I snag Raney on her way out the door with a bag of trash, and she tells me that Katherine’s in her bedroom, which I find unusual.

Sure enough, when I walk to her door, it’s ajar. Through the threshold, I spot Katherine sitting on the edge of her bed with her latest crochet work in her lap. Last she told me, she’s been working on making a scarf for Cory, which is undoubtedly a bid to win his approval.

I watch her for a few seconds, listening to the light click of her crochet needles, drinking in the serenity of her face before I decide to knock on the doorjamb.

Katherine lifts her eyes from her work, and although I smile at her, she doesn’t return it. She scans over me briefly. Even though several days have passed, it’s as if Paul Ward’s blood still clings to me. The air shifts between us, a tension that I can’t place.

She swallows almost nervously and sets aside her crochet project. Getting to her feet, she fixes her eyes to the floor.

Is the tension between us fear?

I go to her, then, gathering her up in my arms. Coiling my arms around her waist, I bring her against me. Her eyes, which were unfocused, are now wide and confused. When I kiss her, she locks up against me.

My mouth traces a path to her neck, burying against her warm skin. Even still, as I handle her with care, she trembles.

“Dorian,” she mutters, and it sounds off. She goes stiff in my arms, and I wonder if I’ve frightened her. I’d stolen her and made her mine, kept her safe and hidden away in my home. But surely, she didn’t think me capable of being complicit in murder.

“Don’t be afraid,” I murmur, planting my mouth at the base of her neck. “You are the last person on this earth that should be afraid of me, Kittie. I’d sooner let you kill me than think for even a second you’re in danger.”

Katherine shakes her head. For what, I’m unsure.

“I don’t care what I have to do, kitten,” I whisper, bringing my mouth to hers and letting it brush her lips. This time, she shudders in my arms. “No one will take you from me.”

Katherine’s ready for an argument, but I don’t let her speak. Instead, I kiss her deeply, bringing one of my hands to the back of her head. I intend to distract her from these fears, bringing her to such a point of bliss that she forgets what she’d even been so worried about.

When I pull back, her blue eyes are hazy, her lips parted slightly.

Lowering myself to my knees in front of her, I carefully push up her floral dress. I drag my tongue and lips from her knee up the length of her inner thigh but stop when she brings her legs together.

I lift my eyes and find the fog of lust gone from her reddened face. She fixes me with a glare, her entire body stiff at my touch. As I clasp the backs of her thighs, I smile up at her.

It isn’t fear or nervousness that I see.

“Kittie,” I say, almost amused, “you’re angry with me.”

Confirming her guilt, she rips her eyes away from me, stares at the corner of the room, and wraps her arms around her stomach.

I didn’t think I’d see the day Katherine would get angry at me. Yes, she was rightfully distraught and frightened in the beginning, but I didn’t think she had the capacity for anger.

I wonder if she’s upset with what I’ve done to Paul.

“Tell me what’s on your mind, kitten,” I say and kiss her thighs, hoping she’ll relax her body enough so I can part them. “Tell me so I can make it better.”

Katherine steals a sharp breath. Her body remains tense. “You’ve been ignoring me.”

Ah, so she wanted comfort after what happened. She takes no issue with what I’ve done, merely that I haven’t been around. It’s too adorable not to smile at. It seems so normal, like what any other woman might say to her husband.

“I’m sorry, Kittie,” I tell her sincerely, pulling my head back only enough to peer up clearly into her face. “I had a lot dumped in my lap this week; I didn’t intend to ignore you. I was looking for you just now to break that streak.”

Katherine doesn’t loosen in my grasp or look at me.

I reign in my amusement. I enjoy every color of Katherine: the shame, the joy, the curiosity. I’ve yet to see her anger and enjoy the shade, but I want her to know I take it seriously.

I move my hands upward, lightly tracing the elastic line of her panties. “Let me make it up to you, Kittie.”

Katherine keeps her arms crossed. I know I can pin her to the bed, coax her out of her discomfort, and bring her to her peak. But it would be mainly for me. It occurs to me that perhaps she wants comfort instead of pleasure, but she cannot—or will not—make that known to me.

And what sort of husband would I make if I can’t provide that?

As I stand, I slip an arm around her knees and scoop her into a fireman’s carry.

“Dorian?” she cries in a hush.

“If you could do anything with me, what would it be?”

Her eyes dance across my face as if searching for something. Maybe she’s looking for the right answer or gauging my mood. She relaxes once I step out of the bedroom.

“I’m not sure,” she finally replies. “I can walk, you know.”

“Did it ever occur to you that I do this because I enjoy it, not because I think you’re incapable?” I smile at her, and her face softens.

She pinches her lips together in thought before she jolts in excitement. “Can we go to the parlor?”

I nod; that seems innocent enough. “And what’s in there?”

Katherine finally seems at ease. I doubt she’s come to terms with what we’ve done; I wonder if she’s in denial. Only in my dreams would she look upon me after the violence I’ve committed and fully accept it. But this—her sweet eyes on me—makes me think otherwise.

“Well, I’ve always wanted to try my hand at drawing you, but you’re always so busy. Would you be my subject?”

I chuckle. “You could have picked anything—you still can. Are you sure that’s all you want me to do? Sit still and pose for you?”

Katherine hunkers her head slightly, almost embarrassed by the request. “Please?” she asks sweetly, and I’d be the Devil himself to deny her.

I carry her to the parlor. Her sketch pads and charcoal pencils are still tucked away in one of the end tables, along with her sharpeners and blending stumps, though she seldom uses them, preferring her fingers instead.

When I place her in one of the lounge chairs, I hand her one of the sketch pads. More than half the pages are already filled, and the sides of the book are smeared black. She flips until she reaches a blank page in the back. While she gets her pencils ready, I grab one of the blank sketchbooks she’s had yet to use and a lead pencil from the bottom of the drawer.

Katherine lines her charcoal pencils at her side, a recent habit of hers. When Raney first gifted her the pencils, she fussed about getting the furniture dirty, especially with her charcoal-covered hands. I would rather see every square inch of our furniture covered in black smudges, paint, and pastel dust as long as it comes from her hands.

Once comfortable, she lifts her eyes to me, pencil in hand. She tilts her head slightly as she watches me flip open one of the sketch pads and place a pencil on the paper.

“Oh, do you know how to draw, Dorian?”

“Not at all,” I confess. “I’m more left-brained.”

Katherine shrugs at this. “Well, I don’t know how, either. I don’t think you have to know. You should just want to, don’t you agree?”

“That’s fair enough,” I concede and study her, beginning to outline a drawing.

Admittedly, it’s harder than it looks. Katherine sits at the edge of the chair, her ankles pulled together and her pink floral dress flowing down her calves. She’s bent over the book in her lap, hair hanging down like a curtain. She’s better suited for a photograph than my horrid drawing.

My attempt to sketch an outline begins to look comical, at best. So, I opt for a stick-figure drawing instead.

Mostly, I watch her. She peeks up at me so quickly I’m surprised she retains anything before she dutifully scribbles away, using her middle finger to smudge out the charcoal. Her hair hangs in her drawing, but she’s so lost in it that I doubt she notices.

Suddenly, I’m very grateful I decided not to take her. I’ve watched her a great many hours throughout her time at the estate, but I’ve always been a passerby, stealing glances when she was not mine to watch. This time, she invited me to watch her and allowed me to be a part of this.

Katherine’s blue eyes are focused, and it’s as if she can see something I’m not privy to. She’s almost too serious for too long.

I finally call to her, “Want to see what I’ve got so far?”

To my surprise, she eagerly nods.

When I hold up my artwork—which makes children’s art look worthy of the Louvre—she lets out a wondrous peel of laughter. In this moment, I know that all of her sounds are beautiful to me: her cries, her moans, her little grumbles. They all have their place. Soon, I’ll have her sighs and whimpers, but right now, I can’t believe I would have denied myself the privilege of her laughter.

“I think…you made that…look bad on purpose!” she tells me between giggles. I lower the sketchbook, daring to quickly date the corner—a memento not of the drawing but of the day—and lift my eyes to her again.

When she calms, she becomes curious. “What are you smiling about?”

If I’m smiling, I don’t notice. “Let’s see what you have.”

Katherine suddenly clutches the book to her chest. “Oh, it looks terrible.”

“I sincerely doubt it.”

Reluctantly, she turns the book to me. A head and shoulders are taking shape with a dollop of hair on top. I shouldn’t be surprised that the likeness is so good. It’s been mostly shaded, without harsh lines or details, but it’s starting to come together.

“I just don’t think your good looks translate,” she says in a pout and then turns it around to scrutinize. She returns the pencil to the paper, frowning at it.

“Good looks? You’re going to give me a complex, Kittie.”

Giggling, she continues her artwork. The scratch of her pencil fills the room.

As I watch her, I find myself thanking God—mine or Katherine’s, perhaps a primordial god of old, or maybe even those I’ve heard of but never given much mind to. I thank them all, not for giving her to me, but because I know that a god had created her with such care and detail.

Katherine wasn’t made for me. And I know someone else curses my name for keeping her when she isn’t mine to take. Yet, I feel created for her , custom-made, forced to heel at her laughter, weak in the knees from the tremble of her voice.

So I thank whichever god made her. Maybe they curse me, too, but I don’t care. I stole her, and I would do it all over again if I could.

“Katherine.”

Frowning, she lifts her eyes from the page, perhaps unhappy that I’d used her given name.

“I love you.”

Heat floods her cheeks at the words. I feel complete, bringing that sweet, bashful expression to her face that has her shaking her head and returning to the page.

What god, I wonder, as a mortal man, will I have to go against to ensure I keep her for all eternity?