Chapter 24
Dahlia
Mrs. Price holds up a navy blue silk dress, the light catching on the beading at the waist. The pattern thickens toward the hem until the fabric looks dipped in glass.
It’s stunning. Even with my limited fashion knowledge, I can tell it’s expensive. My hand lifts to touch it, but I stop myself.
“What’s that for?”
“Mr. Everette has requested your presence at dinner.” Her tone leaves no room for argument. “Becca stayed late. It would be a shame for her hard work to go to waste.”
I look away, tapping my fingers against my leg. Nearly half a minute passes before I say, “I’m not wearing that.”
She deflates a little but hooks the hanger on the closet door. With the dress out of the way, I notice the pile of clothes resting in her other hand.
An oversized hoodie, a pair of black leggings, and a deep-blue T-shirt. She sets them on the bed in front of me. The hoodie’s thick and soft between my fingers. Mrs. Price turns and fusses with something in the drawers, giving me privacy while I change.
The hoodie swallows me whole, the hem brushing just above my knees. I turn and smile. “Thank you. It’s perfect.”
“Don’t thank me.” Her lips twitch. “I suggested the dress. Xander’s the one who picked out the hoodie.”
There’s a flicker of mischief in her eyes before she blinks it away, and I suddenly realize I’ve been played.
I open my mouth, close it, then walk out before I can change my mind. The halls are quiet. I’ve wandered enough that the dining room is easy to find. Candles burn along the table, soft light catching the crystal glasses.
Xander stands with one hand resting on the back of a chair. His sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, and the top two buttons of his shirt are undone, revealing a slice of skin at his throat. His Adam’s apple moves when he swallows, and my ears go hot. I should look away. I don’t.
His gaze drops, tracing my clothes. A smug smile curls his mouth.
I cross my arms over my chest in a sad attempt to cover the hoodie he picked out for me. The motion only makes him grin wider. He looks like a man who just won something.
My heart thuds hard enough that I feel it in my throat. I focus on breathing. He looks so boyish when he smiles like that, all charm and dimples instead of sharp edges. It throws me off-balance. I drop my gaze to the table and study the perfect alignment of plates and glasses.
Even with eighteen empty seats, my place is set right next to his. Of course it is. I think about moving it, just to make a point.
The only thing stopping me is knowing it will only drive him to do something worse, like making me sit on his lap.
He steps behind me, pulls out the chair, and I feel the brush of his hand near my hip as I lower myself down. Heat flickers under my skin, unwanted and irritating. I focus on the table, pretending the food is the most interesting thing I’ve ever seen.
The smell of food hits me first. Roast chicken. Potatoes. Warm bread. My stomach betrays me with a quiet growl.
I lift my plate and reach for the serving spoon to scoop up mashed potatoes, but Xander snatches it, grazing me on the way.
My hands are frozen in place as I stare at my fingers, curling them against my palm.
“Give it back. I can do it myself.”
“I know you can, but I wanted to do it.”
He hands the plate back, now full. I stare at it for a second, then at him. He looks too pleased with himself.
Deciding I won’t get through this sober, I lift my glass and drain it in one long sip. The wine burns a little on the way down, spreading warmth through my chest. Xander’s brows rise high, but he doesn’t comment.
A server appears out of nowhere and refills it before I can set it down.
“A little more, please,” I say. The poor guy blinks at me, hesitates, then fills it almost to the brim.
I finish that one too. The glass hits the table with a soft clink.
He stares at me like I’ve grown another head, then snaps out of it and refills it again.
I grab my fork and bring food to my mouth, but Xander’s watching, his expression smug in that quiet, unshakable way of his.
I shove the food into my mouth, refusing to let him ruin this for me.
Butter and cream mixed with potato as smooth as silk.
I can’t stop the sound that slips out of me, low and pleased, and immediately wish I could take it back.
I refuse to admit how close it sounds to a moan and shove another bite in my mouth.
It’s easy to focus on the plate and forget the man beside me. I take another sip, then another, the sharp edges of the day softening until everything feels muted and almost pleasant.
By the time I lean back, I’m too full to move.
The chair tips slightly, and I catch myself grabbing the table.
I take another drink, even though I know I shouldn’t.
My glass still looks half-full. I squint at it, then glance over my shoulder at the server with the bottle.
Has he been refilling it every time I blink?
My head feels heavy. I prop my cheek on my palm, elbow on the table. The warmth in my stomach spreads to my arms, leaving a faint buzz in its wake.
Xander’s voice breaks the quiet. “How are you enjoying the house? Do you have everything you need?”
The sound rolls through me. I rub a hand over the goose bumps on my arm. “Oh, sure. What girl wouldn’t enjoy being locked in a mansion?” The words come out flat, but the edge I want isn’t there.
His mouth twitches. “Is the house not up to your standards?”
“Just missing the magical library.” The room tilts slightly as I steady myself on the table. The wine hums in my veins.
“There’s a library. Maybe not magical, but I can work on that.”
I squint at him. “Stupid perfect house.” A hiccup interrupts me. “Doesn’t even have Hamburger Helper. Who doesn’t have Hamburger Helper?”
A laugh flickers in his throat, but one look from me kills it.
I finish my glass and set it down. The warmth in my chest tips into floaty. “It’s no fair. You’re supposed to be the bad guy.”
He hums, amused.
“But Toby’s so cute, Mrs. Price, and the chef?” I draw in a breath. “Even Marco likes you.”
Xander leans back, eyes bright. “You’re making friends already.”
“They keep telling me you’re nice.” My eyes narrow as I look him over, words spilling before I can stop them. “Your stupid, fluffy hair. Stupid sexy glasses.”
His chair scrapes softly against the floor as he stands, moving in front of me. His mouth is pressed tight, shoulders shaking. He tries to hold it together, but a quiet laugh slips out anyway. It runs down my spine like a shiver.
“Are you laughing at me?”
His face is flushed when he turns toward me. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
“Sure.” I try to glare, but my yawn ruins it. My body feels heavier by the second. I lean on my forearm to stay upright.
He holds out his hand. “Come on.”
“What do I want that for?” I swat at it. The motion is slower than I intend. His hand doesn’t move.
“I thought you could use help getting upstairs.”
“No need.” I stand too quickly to prove it, and the room tips. My knees wobble. I reach for the first solid thing I can. My palm lands on his forearm, warm under my fingers. The heat seeps into me, steady and impossible to ignore.
The muscle under my hand tightens. I trace the edge of a vein with my fingertips before I catch myself. “Stupid, sexy forearms.”
Xander tips his head back and sighs toward the ceiling. “Give me strength.”
“What do you need strength for? You’re not the one turned on by your captor.”
His lips twitch, and he shakes his head. “Okay. Let’s get you to bed before you hate yourself in the morning.”
I blink up at him, words slower than my thoughts. “Did I say that out loud?”
He doesn’t confirm or deny. He just dips, curling one arm under my knees and the other behind my back. The motion is smooth, practiced. My breath catches as the floor falls away.
“Put me down,” I mumble, squirming, but his arms tighten, holding me steady.
“Careful. You’ll get hurt.”
I press my face into his chest so he can’t see the heat rising up my neck. The soft fabric of his shirt smells like faint cologne and something distinctly him underneath.
“Stupid logic,” I mutter into him.
A low sound rumbles against my cheek, the kind that feels like a laugh but never quite makes it there.
He doesn’t answer, just carries me through the hall.
His stride doesn’t falter as he climbs the stairs.
Every step creaks in the quiet, and I can feel the slow rise and fall of his chest beneath my cheek.
The door to my room opens.
“You’re not allowed to be in here.” My voice comes out weaker than I intend.
He hums deep in his throat, crossing to the bed. “I won’t stay long.”
The small voice in my head whispers that it wouldn’t be so bad if he did. I shove that thought as far away as possible, blaming the alcohol for every single thing happening right now.
He lowers me to the mattress, and I grab his collar before he can step back. The world tilts slightly, spinning just enough that I have to focus on him to stay grounded. “There’s one thing I want.”
His fingers slide around the back of my neck, rough but careful. His thumb traces the edge of my jaw, moving back and forth in a slow rhythm that makes it hard to think. “Tell me.”
I swallow, my throat dry. My tongue runs along my bottom lip, and his eyes follow the motion. For a second, I forget what I was even going to say. His pupils are wide, almost black, eating up the gray around them.
“Tell me, Dahlia.” His voice is lower now, quieter.
“I want to leave this house.”
Everything in him goes still. His hand tightens slightly on the back of my neck. A muscle jumps in his jaw.
I let go of his shirt and drop my hands to my sides. “It’s boring here. Can’t we go somewhere with people? Don’t you do rich people stuff?”
His grip eases, and something in his expression changes. “You want to go somewhere with me?”
I snort. “Are you gonna let me go somewhere on my own?”
He doesn’t answer that. Instead, he shifts his grip and sits me upright like it’s nothing. The room spins a little as he tugs the hoodie over my head. The air hits my skin, cool against the heat of my cheeks. He tosses the hoodie onto the floor and looks down at me for a long moment.
“And taking you somewhere will make you happy?”
“Mmhmm. Super happy.” My words slur just a little. I sink back against the pillow as he pulls the blanket from under me, smoothing it out and tucking it up to my chin. The motion is careful, practiced, like he’s done this before.
He exhales, slow and quiet. “You’ll be safe with me.”
“I know.” My lips curve lazily. “You’re super scary.”
“You think I’m scary?”
I open one eye, the other too heavy to lift. For a second, I think I see something real flicker across his face. Pain. Or maybe regret. It disappears before I can be sure. “Not to me. Other people. They don’t know about…”
“About what?” His voice drops lower, the words vibrating in the space between us.
I’m too tired to answer. My head sinks deeper into the pillow. The sheets smell like fresh linen and faint soap.
Fingers brush my hair back from my face. A light kiss lands against my forehead, soft and almost hesitant.
“That’s good,” he murmurs. “So long as you’re not scared of me.” Another kiss touches just above my brow. “I hope you don’t remember this in the morning.”
I want to ask him why, but my mouth won’t move. My head feels too heavy. He seems to understand anyway.
“Because you don’t want me to know any of this,” he says quietly.
My lips twitch into a small smile. “I’ll just pretend it didn’t happen anyway.”
For a long moment, there’s no sound but his breathing. Then a soft puff of air grazes my skin, almost like a sigh.
“Good night, pretty girl.”
Good night.