Chapter 7
7
H arsh, unrelenting light penetrates my lids, sending jabs to my temples. Even before I open my eyes, I sense the absence of melancholy grey beyond the windows. As sleep fades, the cloudless sky and snow-covered trees come into focus, and I blink against the glare, shifting under a royal blue comforter.
This isn’t my suite in the House of Aries.
The thought sinks in as my hand drifts to the other side of the bed. The sheets are cool to the touch, the space beside me empty. I sit up, clutching the blanket to my chest, and scan the room for Liam.
He’s slouched in a chair in the corner, head buried in his hands, elbows braced on his knees. Tension simmers in his motionless shoulders. For several seconds, I watch, silent as the morning, while fragments of last night take shape.
I almost jumped.
The memory slams into me like a wave, stealing my breath. Sleep dulled its edges, but now awareness washes over me.
What they say about the cold light of day?
It’s true, and brutally cruel in its honesty. A small part of me wishes I’d gone over that cliff after all.
“Liam?”
He doesn’t move right away, and the silence curdles something sick in me.
“Are you okay?” I say, though it’s an absurd thing to ask after what I put him through.
With a sigh, he lifts his head, and our eyes meet. His are bloodshot, rimmed with heartache and exhaustion. “I have no idea what I am.” A frown pulls at his brows. “How much do you remember?”
“More than enough.” Nausea rolls through me as I fold my arms over my midsection. The memories are blurred, softened by alcohol and sharpened by grief, but I remember the cliff. The bite of the wind, the sting of snow, the second I chose to let go. The moment he yanked me back.
And then later, when he made me unravel in a different way entirely.
Another kind of shame takes hold, heavier than the first, because what happened in this bed wasn’t just blind hunger—it was a betrayal to the man who will always have my heart, even though he’s…
Gone.
Liam and I stare at each other, the same unsettling memories hanging between us.
Fear. Anger. Desperation. Then finally…
Acceptance.
With every kiss, caress, and thrust, he’d launched me to the highest summit of grief.
The final stage.
And then, somewhere in the middle of it all, he’d dropped a revelation on me.
At the time, I let it slip by, too consumed with need to register his words. But now, with sobriety clearing my mind, they echo with clarity.
Marrying you is back on the table.
“So you’re back in the auction?” I force the question out before I lose my nerve.
“Yes.” Liam leans back in his chair, chin resting in one hand, revealing nothing.
“How?”
“As a proxy for the House of Sagittarius and…” Glancing away, he lets the sentence hang.
A jagged pang rips through my chest. “What does Landon think?”
Liam’s gaze snaps back to me. “What do you think?”
Even if I wanted to, I can’t respond. Nausea rises, unstoppable, and I shove the comforter aside to sprint to the bathroom. My bare feet slap against the cold marble floor before I fall to my knees and grip the toilet. The retching comes hard and fast, each heave leaving my stomach raw.
I feel him before I see him, his presence grounding me even as my body purges last night’s mistakes.
“That’s it,” he says, gathering the short strands of my hair, rubbing soothing circles on my back. “Get it all out.”
Minutes pass as the waves subside, leaving me drained and trembling. Purged of pride, composure, and strength, I sag into his waiting arms. I should move, put some distance between us, especially after last night, but I don’t have the strength.
“I don’t know how to do this,” he says, breaking the quiet.
“Do what?”
“Let you go for the next three months. It was hard enough doing it the first time.” His sigh drifts across my hair. “Now it’s unbearable.”
Guilt twists in my gut. “Can you give me a few minutes?” I lean forward and slip from his grasp, needing some space to find my composure.
“Take your time.” Liam rises to his feet. “I’ll order some breakfast. Something light.”
The door clicks shut behind him, and I push myself upright and face the pale, hollow-eyed girl in the mirror. Heartache and too many sleepless nights shadow her face, cheeks gaunt from lack of proper nutrition. The acrid scent of vomit hovers in the air, mixing with the stale trace of alcohol.
It’s a reminder of how far I’ve fallen.
I step into the shower and let the scalding water pound against my skin, trying to wash away more than just the remnants of last night.
It’s not enough.
No matter how hard I scrub, or how much steam fills my lungs, I can’t ignore this new reality.
Liam is back in the auction.
Water streams between my fingers as I drag a hand down my face. The nausea may have passed, but the finality of his reinstatement aches in my throat. Of course, I’d choose him over the others, but to admit that, even to myself, feels like another betrayal.
I focus on the rhythm of my breaths, and by the time I shut off the water, my skin is flushed. I wrap myself in a robe and return to the bedroom, where the scent of fresh-baked bread and eggs reach my nose.
Liam stands next to the small table by the balcony doors, pouring tea into a delicate cup. “I thought this might help.” He gestures at the food.
“Thank you.” I sit across from him and choose a croissant from the tray.
He’s downright haggard as he watches me eat with the same stoicism that puts Mr. Bordeaux’s disposition to shame.
“Please say something,” I plead after I can’t take the roar of his silence anymore.
“What do you want me to say?”
“I don’t know. Something…anything. Just stop looking at me like that.”
“How am I looking at you?”
“I don’t know, but it’s unsettling.”
“Unsettling?” His voice is tight, pulled like a rope on the verge of snapping. “You almost threw yourself off a cliff last night. How am I supposed to look at you?”
As my face burns, I set the half-eaten croissant back on the plate. “I didn’t mean to do it.”
Any of it. Wishing him dead, trying to end my life, or letting him inside my body.
“Whether you meant to or not, it doesn’t change the fact that you almost did.” His words slice through me like a scalpel. “And I’m supposed to hand you over to Oliver like I’m not terrified you’ll try again?” Clearing his throat, he drags a hand through his coppery hair. “Tell me, Novalee, after almost losing you to that cliff, how am I supposed to let you out of my sight?”
“I’m sorry, I…” The apology falters on my tongue.
“Sorry doesn’t cover it.” He shakes his head, voice cracking. “What if I’d shown up thirty seconds later?”
“It won’t happen again.”
“Is that a promise?”
“Yes.” Except I have no idea how to make him believe it when I don’t even trust myself. “I won’t leave you like that.”
The gravity of his stare softens, though disquiet remains. I pick at what’s left of my croissant, take a couple bites of eggs, sip the tea he poured for me, but my appetite is as absent now as it was yesterday. I push my plate aside, barely touched.
“You need to eat more,” Liam insists.
“I’m not hungry.”
“I don’t care.” His attention sweeps over me, lingering on the sharp angles of my collarbone. “You’ve lost too much weight.”
My weight means nothing to me, and the croissant tastes like nothing as I tear off another piece and chew. I swallow, then force down a bite of eggs, if only to smooth the worry between his brows.
But he’s still frowning. “I’m serious. You need to take better care of yourself.”
Biting back a snort, I set my cup down, fingers tightening around the porcelain. The tea does little to settle my nerves—not with just a few hours left before my well-being is no longer Liam’s concern.
“Is he kind?” The question tumbles out before I can stop it.
Liam stiffens. “Oliver?”
“Who else?”
“Well, he’s not cruel.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“Mr. Whitney is…” Liam exhales, dragging a hand across his jaw, as if choosing his words with careful consideration. “He’s very controlled.”
“Like Mr. Bordeaux?”
“In a way, yes, but not as harsh.”
“Will he…?” I swallow hard, forcing myself not to squirm. “Is he expecting to touch me?”
Liam taps his fingers against the table, gaze fixed on the window, his profile concealing whatever he’s thinking.
What doesn’t he want me to see?
“Liam,” I press, my tone insistent, “what does Oliver want from me?”
“I don’t know.”
Unease curls in my gut. “You don’t know?”
“Oliver has…specific tastes. Needs he takes care of elsewhere.” A beat passes. “But that doesn’t mean you’re safe.”
The tea turns bitter on my tongue. I should be used to this by now.
Walking blind into the hands of another man.
Adapting to whatever waits for me in his domain.
But I’m not, and I don’t think I ever will be.