Chapter 21
Jensen
It’s been a long, strange week. One that’s brought with it a new normal.
One that’s so different from my old life that it’s hardly recognizable.
The lord is everywhere all the time. He’s been spending so much time in the library that I’ve started putting him to work.
He’s been helping me catalog books in the mornings, and at lunchtime, we eat together.
On nice days, we head into the garden and sit in a sunny spot near the rose garden. When it’s grotty outdoors, we eat in the orangerie. Sometimes we talk, and sometimes we sit quietly, watching raindrops land on the skylight above us.
In the afternoons, I read to him, and he makes me tea when my throat goes dry.
Every day, he sets the tray, steeps the tea, and pours it for me himself, stirring in exactly the right amount of lemon and honey.
He doesn’t allow Mrs. Thompson or Sid to help him with it, much to their bewilderment.
Every day, I find Mrs. Thompson’s reaction to the situation a little funnier, and I think he does too.
He looks at me as she trots at his heel, chattering about being done out of a job, and presses his lips together a little tighter than usual to stop himself from laughing.
Generally, I take my tea with a mind-bending orgasm.
In the evenings, things seem to slow down. He still chases me sometimes, but we’ve started watching murder mysteries on TV and chatting late into the night.
I wake early most mornings to watch him dance with Gregor, and when I see him at breakfast, I still give him a surreptitious little sniff to be sure he’s taken his medication.
Every morning, the result is the same. He smells like nothing.
Absolutely nothing. No alpha musk. No masculine pheromones or heat.
Nothing. Just plastic with a nice personality.
Yet, something has changed. When I get into my nest, I feel almost like I did when I first got here.
Not homesick exactly because I don’t think about home with longing or want to be there specifically, but the emotion is similar.
An unpleasant ache finds its way into my bones when I turn off the light, the darkness denser and more far-reaching than it should be.
I curl into a ball, arranging pillows and blankets as close to me as possible, but no matter what I do, I can’t find a comfortable spot.
No matter how I lie, or how I build my nest, it feels too big. Too empty.
It’s completely ridiculous because I literally have company all day, but when I get into bed, I feel lonely. A pang wraps around my ribcage, and despite how tight it makes my lungs, I feel hollow.
I feel lots of other things too. Happy and sad for no reason. Frustrated, even though I’ve had a wonderful day. Ridiculously excited for the sun to come up and for a new day to dawn. Confused because none of this makes sense.
Every night, as I lie in the dark, I remind myself that it’s impossible to have a crush on a man I’ve never scented. I remind myself that it’s not how things work. Attraction and compatibility are determined by scent. That’s a fact. Everyone knows that.
As the days have worn on, the nights have gotten darker, heavier, and are laden with a murmur of dread. The murmur started quietly. So softly it was hardly a thought. Barely a threat. An almost imperceptible wondering, more than anything concrete.
Has he ever thought about going off his suppressant?
If he had a deep connection with someone, would he consider it?
Would he stop his treatment for a day, an hour, a few minutes, to scent someone if he thought they might be the one?
These thoughts, and others like them, have grown louder each night, and each night I wish I had the courage to ask him about it.
With each passing day, a grim, yet simple realization hits me a little harder—I’m not someone who’s built for casual sex.
It’s not who I am.
When I think about it, it seems very likely that what I’ve been doing these past few months is trying to catch feelings for a man I’ve never scented. And all because I’ve let him have access to my body.
In some ways, it makes sense. I’m very much a relationship person.
I always have been. When I’ve been with people sexually in the past, I’ve always been in romantic relationships with them.
I thought it was because I’m a bit of a nerd, a bit scared of everything, and as such, I’ve always been overly aware of the risks associated with hooking up with strangers, but maybe it’s not that.
Maybe for me, sex and feelings aren’t two separate things.
Maybe that’s what’s messing me up?
In the early hours, it seems clear to me that I should put a stop to the sexual side of things with the lord. It’s the obvious thing to do. It’s not like he gets any real sexual gratification from it, and he’s been plenty useful helping in the library now, so I’m sure he won’t mind.
When I think about it soberly, it’s clear that crossing the line with the lord was a big error in judgment on my part. Aside from everything else, he’s a Casanova alpha, and I’m not someone who enjoys having my heart mangled.
The trouble is, in the day, when the library is sunny and warm, the lord looks like a snack.
A decadent, delectable, indulgent sweet treat.
A gourmet dessert that tastes like all my favorite things.
A sugar-laden, chocolatey concoction that I know full well is bad for me.
It’s unhealthy. It makes my blood pressure spike, my energy crash, and causes the worst heart palpitations.
It’s no good for me, and I know it. It should be avoided at all costs, or at the very least enjoyed in moderation.
Every day, I wake up determined that today will be different.
I give myself lengthy pep talks, reminding myself to be strong.
To be disciplined. To show a modicum of restraint.
I promise myself that I’ll ask him about going off his suppressant, and tell myself that I’ll say no when he offers to touch me.
I tell myself that I’ll think of other things when he looks at me, and that I’ll let my eyes tell him that this arrangement is costing me sleep and isn’t good for me anymore.
It’s just that when I see him, when I’m in the same room with him and he offers me that first bite, that gooey, heavenly first taste, I forget everything that isn’t him.