Chapter 10
10
T he sun is slipping below the horizon when I return to the House of Capricorn. Golden light slants across the floor, while the richness of seared steak and garlic butter drifts through the air. For the first time in weeks, my mouth actually waters.
I’m hungry .
I follow the scent, Astrid trailing behind, but Sebastian’s paintings catch my eye. The session with the shrink left me too raw to face them, so I push past the urge and step into the kitchen. Dirty pots and pans clutter the counter beside the stove.
Did Oliver cook?
That’s unexpected. He seems the type to have his meals sent up by the staff. I make my way into the dining room, and there he is, seated at the head of an oblong rustic table. In the center, fluttering candles surround a vase of white carnations.
Oliver glances up, fork halfway to his lips, and smirks. “I figured you’d be famished after all the not talking you did during your session, so I took the liberty.” He nods toward the spot at the other end, where a plate awaits beneath a silver lid.
Sliding into the chair, I eye him with mock skepticism. “I didn’t realize the men in this tower knew how to cook. Should I be impressed or concerned?” I lift the lid to find a flawlessly browned steak, roasted potatoes, and tender carrots bathed in a glaze. “Or was this more of a ‘supervise while you drink’ kind of effort?”
A twitch of amusement pulls at his mouth. “I can work up a sweat when motivated.” His gaze drops to my cleavage, eyes darkening to warm espresso, and something unwanted stirs between my legs. I’m so caught off guard, I don’t notice Astrid’s voice cutting through the charged moment until it’s already breaking the spell.
“I’ll take supper in the queen’s suite,” she says, reminding me we aren’t alone.
Oliver doesn’t acknowledge her, but I catch the flick of his fingers as he dismisses my babysitter. She vanishes from the room, and in her absence, his scrutiny screams at me. I’m halfway through my steak when he breaks the silence.
“How was your session?” he asks, studying me over the rim of his glass.
“It was fine.”
“And short.” He takes a slow sip as I move the food around my plate. “Sully always did have a way of making people talk.”
“Then I guess he chose the right profession.”
“We all have our talents.”
“And what are your talents, Mr. Whitney?”
“Are we no longer on a first name basis?”
I shrug. “I suppose we are.”
“That’s disappointing.”
His response tips me off balance, and I frown. “Disappointing, how?”
“I was hoping to persuade you into calling me Sir .” He’s bold in the way he’s watching me—a meaningful lock of gazes that almost steals my breath.
Almost .
“And why would I want to do that?”
“Use the title and find out.”
Flustered by his smug innuendo, I cross my legs and force a mask of indifference, refusing to let him see how he’s getting under my skin. There’s something unsettling about his confidence, how he winds it around my neck like a trap.
The dynamic feels too familiar, another match in a smorgasbord of games that needs to end before I make the wrong move.
“Who’s the woman in those paintings?” I ask, reaching for the nearest thought.
The shift in conversation surprises us both.
Oliver leans back and spears a potato with his fork. “She’s in the past.”
“Evasive. I’m sure your hired shrink would have plenty to say about that.”
“Did you open up to Sully about Sebastian?”
“You’re changing the subject.”
“No,” he says, drawing out the word, “I was talking about other things when you changed the subject.”
“Was she your girlfriend?”
His fork clanks against the table. “You’re not going to drop this, are you?”
“Not likely.”
He presses his lips together, holding back words that threaten to break free. “Her name was Talitha.”
Was.
A lump of sympathy rises in my chest. At best, his mystery woman broke his heart, though I have a feeling it’s much worse than a story of parted ways.
“What happened?” I ask, bracing myself.
“She died.”
His blunt answer lands between us with an echo of agony.
“So I understand what you’re going through.”
“I’m sorry,” I choke out, swallowing the ache in my throat. “I shouldn’t have pried.”
“It’s fine.” He shakes his head, waving off the apology. “It was a long time ago.”
Not long enough.
And it never will be.
He doesn’t voice it, but I hear his unspoken truth. His heart bears a permanent hole, like mine. The realization presses against my ribs, haunting the hollow spaces of my own loss. I should say something, offer a feeble platitude, but nothing feels adequate. Grief isn’t so easily erased.
“It’s been a long day.” I pull my hands back from the table. “May I be excused?”
“I haven’t presented my gift yet.” His tone prickles the back of my neck.
Because a gift from the Brotherhood is never just a gift.
I glance at the massive ring on my left hand and think back to that first dinner, that first offering, when Liam staked his claim. In this tower, gifts always come with strings.
Oliver’s easy confidence tells me this one is no different.
“You seem suspicious,” he says. “Don’t you enjoy gifts?”
“I don’t trust them, coming from the Brotherhood.”
“There’s no need to be wary.” He drags a fingertip along the rim of his glass. “This isn’t something you can unwrap.”
“Okay,” I concede begrudgingly. “I’m intrigued.”
“When you’re ready to know what’s behind the locked door,” he murmurs, savoring the slow tease of my curiosity, “just say the word .”
I know exactly which door he’s talking about, which word he wants me to say.
Sir.
“You’re assuming I want to know what’s inside.”
“Trust me. You will.”
“And how can you be so sure?”
The candlelight flickers, glinting in his eyes. “It’s a talent of mine.”
His words hang between us, with no elaboration offered.
Not that I want one.
I push back from the table, limbs sluggish with exhaustion, and try to ignore the certainty in his smirk. He already knows I won’t be able to stop thinking about what’s behind that door.
Why is it that once an unwanted thought is planted, it spreads like a weed, wild and uncontrollable?
By the time I retreat to my suite, sleep is the furthest thing from my mind. I toss and turn in bed as Oliver’s cryptic talents take center stage. Astrid’s breathing evened out an hour ago, but my thoughts spin through the day, trapped in the Brotherhood’s collective hamster wheel.
Oliver and his mysterious door .
Dr. Sullivan Price and his method .
Liam and the aftermath of last night, when he made me come… twice .
The shrink is right about one thing—it all comes down to control. I lost it with Ford, and then on that cliff, and afterward…
In Liam’s bed.
I gave him something I’ve only ever given one man. Regret floods my veins, but a small part of me wouldn’t take it back, even if I could. That act of intimacy sparked life into me again.
He purged the denial from my bones and dragged me into acceptance. It was cathartic to the core, but it was still the essence of losing control.
Dr. Price’s mandate lurks in the quiet shadows of my suite, and I press my thighs together, an unconscious reaction, as a thread of need tugs at me.
An itch I don’t know how to scratch. Not on my own.
The men in this tower have always had a hand in my orgasm, whether by permission, participation, or design.
But the doctor’s challenge won’t leave me alone. Tentatively, I reach underneath my nightgown and slide a hand into my panties. Closing my eyes, I test the waters with slow, featherlight strokes over my clit. Sensation whispers through me before vanishing like smoke. Frustration leaves me restless and squirming.
This is ridiculous.
Last night, Liam had no trouble lighting me up.
Unbidden, the memory unfurls. His breath, hot and damp against my inner thighs. His tongue, lazy and thorough as he licked me to madness. The way he groaned, like he was the one unraveling.
I ease a finger into my pussy, and a sharp inhale shudders through my chest. My exploration is nothing compared to the way he filled me, his expert digits plunging deep, but it’s enough to tantalize. Liam’s words slip through the haze, coaxing me further.
Give it to me.
I arch into the pleasure, hips rolling, pressure building…
Suddenly, Oliver intrudes into my headspace, his commanding presence drifting through my mind. I’m so startled by the direction of my thoughts that a soft gasp escapes before I can swallow it down. My eyes snap wide, air tangling in my throat.
My bedroom door gapes open, framing a silhouette on the threshold. Broad shoulders, straight spine, hands tucked into his pockets.
Oliver.
Wordless.
Motionless.
Haunting the edge of my desire.
I hold his stare for a beat too long, and my heart hammers in the hush of the room. Then, with a slow exhale, I roll over and give him my back, squeezing my eyes shut as heat pulsates at my core.
Minutes pass.
Astrid’s rhythmic snores continue.
The stillness hums in my ears.
But when I dare another glance, the doorway is empty.