Chapter 19 Amara
Morning comes too fast. For a moment I am blank. No dreams, no voice in my ear, just the irritating scratch of light on my eyelids and the impossible quiet that settles in the bones of a place like this.
The sheets are too soft, the pillows too high, and I stretch out in the endless white of the king bed, every muscle sore and humming. I remember last night in splinters—wet skin, the bite of teeth at my neck, the way his hands forced me to the edge of the world and held me there until I screamed.
This morning, my body is alien to me. My chest is tight, but not with fear. There’s space in it now, a new kind of freedom that is nothing like the emptiness I grew up with. It is a need to fill and be filled—by sensation, by voice, by him.
The city is a wall of glass and chrome, spread out below the windows. The traffic is distant and the skyline is hungover. I want to soak in this moment until it burns the memory of Westpoint from the root of my brain.
Somewhere down the hall, I hear him.
Not his footsteps—the floors are too plush, the doors too heavy—but his voice, deep and raspy and definitely doing things to my lady bits.
"Yes, two bottles of the Dom, not the vintage, the newer label.
Pastries—everything you have that comes out of a real oven.
No, I don't care what kind. Eggs benedict, extra hollandaise.
If you have caviar, I want two tins. No, make it three, and plenty of toast points.
Just keep sending up fresh coffee. No sugar.
If you bring sugar, I'll throw it out the window. "
Silence, then a pause. "And strawberries. Not the underripe, tasteless kind. If they're underripe, I will find out where you live. Thank you."
The call ends with a click. I smile, and it cracks something open in me.
The hallway goes quiet again. I can sense him before I see him, a shift in the air, the static of his focus landing on me.
He stands in the bedroom doorway, shoulder propped against the frame, arms folded. His eyes are bottomless, but I know by now how many things live in them: threat, tenderness, appetite, and a vulnerability so sharp it sometimes hurts to look at.
He wears nothing but a pair of low, drawstring pajama bottoms, the fabric riding the point of his hipbones, clinging to the muscle of his thighs.
His torso is sculpted, so fucking perfect, he could be a model for a painting on perfection.
The faint trail of dark hair runs from his navel down, and I know exactly where it leads.
To the bulge starting to form the longer he looks at me.
His hair is still fucked from sleep and the pool last night, falling over one eye in a way that should look ridiculous but instead looks deliberate. Like he engineered the entire universe to make sure he’d see me like this, naked but for a tangle of sheets and my own shuddering heartbeat.
He doesn't speak. He just looks at me, letting the silence breathe, and in that space I remember how to want.
I pull the sheet up, mostly to have something in my hands, but he frowns.
He crosses the room in three steps and sits on the edge of the bed, his palm grazing my ankle as he perches.
"You’re awake," he says.
It’s so obvious, so stupid, that I want to laugh.
Instead, I say, "Were you worried I wouldn't be?"
He shrugs, but his fingers tighten around my ankle. "You slept hard. Barely moved. I checked."
"That's not creepy at all."
He smirks. "Better than the alternative. I’ll never let you out of my vicinity again."
I flush, liking the protective edge that oozes from him.
"I’m not going anywhere," I say. The words are too big a promise to truly keep, but he takes them anyway.
"Good," he says, and traces a finger along the instep of my foot. "Breakfast is coming. You should eat. You were… depleted last night."
He means it as a joke, but I see the flash of something behind his eyes—worry, maybe. Or guilt.
I sit up, the sheet falling away, and I let him look. For the first time in my life, it doesn't feel like a violation. It feels like being seen.
He leans forward, hair falling into his eyes, and brushes the ghost of a kiss against my knee.
"You feeling okay this morning? After everything?"
I nod, running my own hands over my body.
"I liked it," I say. “All of it.” It comes out softer than I want, but it's true.
He looks up at me then, his smile not cruel, but proud.
He stands and offers his hand. "Come with me. I want you to see the city from the balcony in the day."
I take it, and he pulls me from the bed, tangle of hair and limbs, and leads me outside.
It is warmer this morning, like the world is righting itself after the deep evil has been cleansed.
A sigh escapes me as he wraps his arms around me, pressing my naked back against the warmth of his chest. I feel every inch of him, every inch that was inside me, and it makes me ache in ways I never learned to name.
We stand like that, looking out at the world we’ve stolen, and I realize I’m not afraid anymore.
Not of him. Not of myself. Not even of what comes next.
His voice is at my ear, low and dangerous. "You’re never going back to who you were, you know."
I nod.
"Say it," he demands.
"I’m never going back."
He presses a kiss to the hollow behind my ear. "Good girl."
When the room service cart arrives, I am still naked, wrapped only in his arms, and I don't bother to hide.
The man who delivers it never looks at us, eyes trained on the wall. I want to laugh at the absurdity, the power of it.
Julian drags the cart out and stops it in front of the patio set.
White linen, silver cutlery, three-tiered towers of pastries and fruit.
The eggs benedict covered in steam, yolks glistening, the hollandaise thick as gold.
There are bowls of strawberries and blackberries and piles of smoked salmon, every slice fanned out perfect.
Two bottles of champagne sweat in a bucket, and there’s a carafe of coffee with two perfect mugs.
He gestures for me to sit, then pours the champagne, the bubbles fizzing up and over the rim. I reach for the glass, and he watches my hand. I can feel the burn of his gaze, but this time it isn’t a threat. It’s a kind of worship.
We eat in silence for a while. He tears a croissant in half and passes it to me, the flaky crust disintegrating against my palm.
I press it to my lips, taste the butter, and let it melt on my tongue.
I go for the fruit next, stabbing the fattest strawberry with the tip of my knife and sinking my teeth into it.
The juice runs down my chin and onto my wrist, and before I can wipe it away, Julian leans in and licks the drip from my skin.
I freeze. He doesn’t smile, but his eyes do.
I finish the fruit, slower this time, and reach for my coffee.
"Do you even like this stuff?" he asks, nodding at the breakfast.
I shrug. "We could afford whatever we wanted back home, but my dad was always a stickler for watching my waist line.”
I stare at the table, at the perfect pyramid of fruit, the way the seeds freckle the inside of each cut berry. My hands shake, so I hide them under the table.
He doesn’t say anything. I can feel his stare. “Fuck him. You’re a fucking goddess and you deserve to eat what you want.”
My blush spreads across my face and he grabs a fork and knife, cutting into the benny before tilting my chin up, making me take a bite.
My moan is enough to set his eyes ablaze. “Do that again and you’ll be stuffed with more than just eggs.”
I test it…
“Mmmm, fuck, these eggs are so good.” I lick my lips and lower my eyes so I’m peeking at him through my lashes.
“Get your ass to the bed. Now.”
After breakfast, the day melts.
I lose all sense of time. The hours stretch and fold, each moment so full it spills over into the next. We don’t leave the penthouse, except to move from room to room, one luxury to another. I am drunk on the emptiness of obligation.
We start in the jacuzzi, the water scalding and perfect, steam roiling around us as we slip into the heat.
I sit between Julian’s knees, my back to his chest, and let the world go fuzzy.
He kneads my shoulders, fingers digging in with a pressure that hurts and heals at the same time.
Every so often, he drops a kiss onto the curve of my neck, the same place he marked me last night.
It’s not the same as before. There is no performance here. No one to impress, no one to threaten, no one to prove anything to. When I sigh and lean into him, it’s because I want to, not because I’m expected to.
We talk about nothing. Movies, bands, the way the pool lights change color at random.
At one point, he tries to teach me how to do a “proper cannonball” and almost pulls the muscle in his thigh.
I laugh so hard I choke on my own spit and he pretends to be annoyed, but I see the way it makes him smile.
It’s the kind of smile that isn’t meant for anyone else.
We order more food. He insists I try the duck, the tiramisu, the smoked trout. I let him feed me, mouth to mouth, and the intimacy of it is almost more than sex. He licks whipped cream from the corner of my mouth, and I almost come from the sensuality of it all.
At some point, we nap. The blackout curtains are drawn, the room cast in a soft twilight. I curl against his chest, my ear pressed to the steady drum of his heart. His arm wraps around me, pinning me down, but the weight of it is comfort, not prison.
When I wake, the sun is just starting to set, the sky is purple and orange. I find him on the couch, stretched out in a pair of black joggers and nothing else, scrolling through the news on his phone. He looks up when I walk in, and his eyes soften.
I burrow next to him, tucking my feet under his thigh. He puts the phone down and grabs my thigh, squeezing gently in small pulses, massaging out the tension.
We watch the sunset together. The windows are open just enough to let the evening air in, and I shiver, pulling a blanket over my bare legs. He notices, and without a word, he tucks the ends of the blanket around me like a little burrito. It’s such a small thing, but it means everything.
As the last of the sun disappears behind the skyline, his phone buzzes. He groans, then checks it. His brow furrows, then smooths out, and when he looks at me, there is something new in his face.
"That was Rhett," he says.
I sit up, trying not to look too eager. "Are they okay?"
He nods. "Isolde had the baby. It’s a boy."
The words knock something loose in my chest. I press my palm to my heart, as if to slow it down.
"What’s his name?"
"Maverick," Julian says. "He’s already got more hair than Rhett supposedly."
I try to picture it—a new life, clean and untouched, nothing to inherit but what they choose to give him. I wonder if he will ever know about the blood and fire that made his world possible.
Julian slides his arm around my shoulders and pulls me close. I let my head fall onto his shoulder, let myself feel happy for someone else for the first time in forever.
For a long time, we just sit. We don’t talk, we don’t move. The sky goes from orange to indigo to black, and the city flickers on in a million points of light.
"I never thought we’d see it," I murmur.
"See what?"
"The world after. The one we made."
He turns to me, takes my chin in his hand, and kisses me so soft I want to bottle this moment forever.
"We deserve it," he says.
He’s right. We do.
I let my eyes drift shut, the sound of the city like a lullaby, and for once, I don’t dream about the past.
I dream about all the mornings to come.