Chapter 14
14
T ime blurs like watercolors bleeding together, reds and blues crafting a mural of dusty plum. I drift through the days, detached from everything that used to tether me.
The only constant is Oliver’s shadow in my doorway each night, his presence both an anchor and a cage as my fingers trace familiar paths. The edge always comes, threatening to bust through my shield with an explosion I might not survive.
And that’s why I pull back, night after night, denying myself the release I crave as his dark gaze burns into my skin.
I don’t understand this ritual we’ve created. Why he needs to witness my restraint. Why I let him. But it’s become the only thing that feels real anymore.
During the day, I’m as much of a ghost as Sebastian.
Astrid oversees my meals, dutifully watching me eat food I can’t taste. Sleep comes in fits and starts. I’ve thought about picking up my sketchbook to design my wedding dress, but it’s hard to plan a future I’m no longer excited about. The fashion line I once dreamed of feels like someone else’s ambition now, a remnant of a girl who no longer exists, so the pages remain blank.
Oliver disappears into his work, supposedly buried in Brotherhood ledgers and spreadsheets. But the few times I’ve passed his home office, I find him frozen in place, staring at the same document as if his mind isn’t in the room at all.
Each night, I rush past the locked door that lingers at the edge of my awareness and slip into the rhythm of our rendezvous. It’s the only thing that cracks through my apathy, this ritual straddling the line between intimacy and indecency. Not that I mind the numbness. It’s become my refuge, a quiet space between breathing and breaking.
But even apathy has its limits, because on the afternoon of the memorial, my tears come back with a vengeance.
I cross the threshold of the grand ballroom and take in the sea of solemn faces as a splinter of grief lodges deep. Calla lilies and winter roses hang thick in the air, mingling with the scent of melted wax. Chairs creak as guests shift in their seats, the occasional sniffle or muffled sob rising like static.
At the podium, a man I don’t recognize speaks, his white hair glowing silver-blue beneath the lights. He drones on about loss, legacy, and sacrifice, but the words are soulless vibrations buzzing in my ears.
For the entirety of his rehearsed speech, I fix my gaze on the eight-foot photographs at the front of the room. Sebastian’s azure eyes stare back, impossibly alive, his crooked grin spearing me in the heart.
A direct hit.
Next to him, Tatum leans casually against a stone pillar. Both are captured mid-laugh, frozen in black frames—snapshots of moments that will never happen again.
Mr. Stone rises from his seat, and my spine stiffens. The room stills as he walks to the podium with practiced poise, but there’s something staged in the way he carries himself. He clears his throat, and when he speaks, his voice trembles in a display of grief.
“Sebastian embraced his legacy.” He pauses, his Adam’s apple bobbing before he swipes a finger across the dry plane of his cheek. “I’ll always be proud of the man he was.”
He goes on, spinning a story of love and pride between father and son.
Every bit of it fictional.
And then, like a ripple through time, his voice collides with a memory…
Give him the queen’s punishment. She’ll suffer enough when he breaks.
My mind flashes back to the day Sebastian took fifty lashes for our stolen kiss in the gazebo. The man who dares to call himself his father said those words as if they meant nothing.
A chasm splits open inside me, and my lungs seize. I jump to my feet, everything around me melting to gray, and barely register Liam standing.
Or Oliver telling him to let me go.
I’m already shoving through the heavy French doors, with Astrid not far behind. The winter air bites through my thin black dress, but I welcome the sting.
Snow drifts down in lazy spirals as my feet carry me across the grounds until the white-pillared structure emerges.
Our gazebo.
I climb the stairs, and my knees buckle, hitting the stone floor in the middle of the painted zodiac wheel. A primal sob claws its way out of my throat as I fold inward, unable to hold myself up any longer.
I’m back at the beginning of this pain, as if my grief never left—as if it only played dead before knocking me down again.
“Miss Van Buren.” Astrid’s voice is unusually soft as she kneels beside me. “Please come inside.”
“I can’t.”
She rests a hand on my shoulder, concern flooding her usually stern features. “You’ll freeze out here.”
“I said no!” I jerk away from her touch, and she recoils, feet unsteady. Her mask of rigid composure drops into place again, but not before I catch a glimpse of the woman underneath the guardian.
I should apologize for yelling, but the pain slashing through my chest is too great. So I ignore her and curl into the fetal position, tears burning like acid down my frozen cheeks.
Astrid steps out of view, quietly giving up, and it isn’t long before the crunch of heavy footfalls arrive.
Liam appears first.
Then Oliver.
Vance, Ford, and Hugo follow, and the five of them form a protective barrier around me.
Oliver steps in front of Liam, crouching at my side, and shrugs off his suit jacket.
“I’m sorry,” I say, wiping the hot grief from my face. “I couldn’t stay in there.”
“Don’t apologize.” He helps me into a sitting position then drapes the coat over my shoulders. The lining is warm from his body, his heat grounding me in a way I didn’t realize I needed.
“I didn’t mean to disrupt the service.”
“You didn’t do anything wrong.” Oliver winds his arms around my shivering form and tucks me against his chest.
As we leave the gazebo, my gaze snags on Liam’s distraught face.
Guilt tugs at me.
I’ve done it again—blindly run into the cold. He saved me once, and I’ve just put him through it a second time.
Only now, he has no choice but to let someone else act as savior.
Oliver leads the way back to the estate, carrying me through the snow in silence. The storm has thickened, flakes whipping sideways in harsh gusts. Disorientation gnaws at me, nausea curling with every shiver.
We enter the tower, and I press closer to his warmth as the seven of us crowd into the elevator.
Overhead lights cast a golden hue across the polished walls, catching fractured reflections of the men in their dark suits, their faces drawn tight with the weight of the day.
When the car stops at the House of Capricorn, Oliver steps out without a word, cradling me like I’m breakable.
Liam moves to follow, but Oliver shakes his head.
“I’ve got her.”
The chancellor halts, his jaw ticking once in protest, though he isn’t about to argue.
Not while I’m under Oliver’s control.
And something about that pokes beneath the pain, prodding my anger.
Why do they get to decide?
Why does any man get to say I’ve got her ?
“Put me down,” I demand, struggling against Oliver’s chest.
He lowers me to my feet as Astrid exits the elevator. The tension between him and Liam holds until the doors slide shut between them. Motors whir in a hush of motion that carries the car to higher floors, leaving the three of us alone.
Oliver unlocks the front door, and I pull his jacket tighter around me as I step into the sitting room. He dismisses Astrid and trails after me, snowmelt dripping from his hair onto his drab black suit.
I’m soaked too, my teeth chattering as I sink into the sofa closest to the fireplace and lean into the cushions, too emotionally drained to do anything else.
Flames crackle, but the warmth doesn’t reach me.
“It’s time for another therapy session with Sully,” he says, pacing in front of me, his gait unhurried. “I’ll have something arranged.”
“Do what you must. I don’t care anymore.”
He frowns. “That’s a problem, then.”
Shoving his hands into his pockets, he lets the silence stretch long enough to aggravate me.
I cross my arms. “What’s a problem?”
“You, not caring. That won’t make for a happy marriage.”
I let out a dry, humorless laugh. “I thought you didn’t want to marry me.”
“That’s beside the point. Marriage or not, I don’t like this apathetic state of yours.”
“You speak of happy marriages, but I’m the one who needs help? Is Dr. Price aware you suffer from delusions of grandeur?”
He smirks. “No delusions here. I’d probably make a terrible husband anyway.”
“I don’t need therapy,” I bite out. “Especially not from Dr. Price.” The name lands with scorn.
“We’ll have to agree to disagree.”
“Why do you care?”
He settles next to me, and a sigh of resignation slips out.
“You remind me of Talitha.” He tilts his head, locking his eyes with mine. “She didn’t just pass, Novalee. She killed herself.”
I gape at him, his words illuminating every moment I’ve spent in his presence. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”
As I study the paintings, the realization settles in. They’re a merging of the two people we loved and lost.
“Will you tell me about her?” I ask, bringing my attention back to him.
His gaze drops to the floor. “She was submissive…like you.” Dormant grief laces his voice, softening each syllable. “Made for me in every way.”
I recall Mr. Bordeaux and his relationship with Loren, or Pax and the woman he calls slave .
“What do you mean by submissive?” I lean on the arm of the couch. “I’m not like that.”
“It’s an umbrella term for many dynamics. Talitha gave me control of her life and body because she needed the freedom it gave her.”
“How is that freedom?”
“Giving me the reins took the pressure off her. She thrived. Hell, we both did.”
“I understand that’s what worked for you and her, but I want…something different.”
I want Sebastian.
As if we’re tuned to the same wavelength, I swear he hears the unspoken words.
“You might not want or need it in the same way she did, but I see it in you. You have the same type of submissive spirit as my Talitha.”
He pauses, staring into the flames, a faint smile curving his mouth. He seems lost to the memory while the firelight dances across his features.
“She was smart and gifted, with the most breathtaking voice I’ve ever heard. She dreamed of performing at La Scala in Italy someday. She would’ve made it there, too, if not for…”
With a heavy breath, he lowers his face into his hands, fingers raking through his drying hair. He stays like that for a long moment, inhaling and exhaling, words failing him, then his rough voice breaks free again.
“She was bipolar, unresponsive to meds, haunted by things that happened before I met her.” For a beat, his gaze finds mine. “I would’ve done anything for her, but you can’t love someone out of their pain, no matter how hard you try.”
His anguish wraps around me as if it’s my own. Disquiet spreads over us like a blanket, and we’re both transported to the past, our gazes fixed on the flames, ensnared in the same trance.
Until he moves.
It’s a slight shift, his warm and solid thigh brushing mine, but it’s enough to crash land me back on this couch with him, planting me in the present.
Because that bit of contact explodes in the space between us, inching him closer, my name a raspy sigh on his lips. That tone is all gravel and need, a longing for something more weighing down his lids.
It’s powerful.
Primal.
Undeniable.
Just like when he watches me every night as I writhe against my hand.
“They’re gone, Novalee, but we’re here.” He tangles his fingers into my damp strands, and for a second, I think he’s going to kiss me.
In fact, I’m sure of it as his attention dips to my mouth. For some incomprehensible reason, I don’t know if I’d try to stop him.
Isn’t wanting two men enough? Why am I feeling these things for Oliver Whitney?
But there’s something about him that tugs at my heartstrings, even when I wish it didn’t.
Am I that mentally unstable? Or is this a rebound?
I gnaw on my bottom lip, my heartbeat stumbling. “It’s your decision whether to touch me…but I’m asking you not to.”
“I know what you’re thinking.” His hand slides free of my tangled locks. “You’ve convinced yourself that by giving in, you’ll betray Sebastian’s memory.”
“That’s not true, I don’t?—”
He takes me by the chin, locking me into place, making retreat impossible. “You’re allowed to want someone else. Believe it or not, it helps.”
“And you want to be that person.” There’s no question in my tone. Everything about this man screams I want you .
“Yes. If not me, then who?” He leans into me, his spicy scent invading my senses. “I know you miss him, but who else can make you feel like this?”
I lift my chin, forcing him to let go.
“Tell me, Novalee, because I know your blood’s rushing right now, causing an itch you’re dying to scratch.”
“What if it’s an itch I’ve already scratched?”
His brows furrow. “Liam?”
Silence is all he gets.
“I take it something happened before you transferred into my house?”
“Well, it sure hasn’t happened since.” Not even by my own hand. Truth is I’m not sure why I keep holding back, except…
It’s exhilarating, the way Oliver watches me every night. I’m becoming addicted to the attention, to the ache low in my core that lingers long after he’s gone.
And then there’s the anticipation. The possibility that one night he might actually step inside my bedroom.
It’s a secret hope I can barely admit to myself.
“I can’t do this with you.” I jump up from the couch and fold my arms across my chest.
But he’s right behind me.
Out of sight.
Not touching, just hovering .
“I think you can.” His exhale hits my nape, sending delicious shivers down my limbs. “And I think you want to, so I’m going to haunt your doorway every night until you do.”
“Why are you doing this?”
“I’ve had many women since Talitha.” Slowly, he pulls his coat off my shoulders. “But none made me ache the way you do.” Leaning down, he kisses the hollow of my neck, a whisper of lips on skin, though that brief touch shoots straight to my pussy.
I suck in a breath, vocal cords stuck in a vise.
“Would you like to know what I do every night after watching you?” He tosses the damp jacket onto the sofa, and I wish I could hide under it.
“No.”
“Definitely the right answer. The details would make you wet.”
He presses into me from behind, and the hard length of his cock fits snug against the swell of my ass.
“This is what you do to me. Having you in this house every waking moment, not being able to touch you…it’s driving me crazy. I can’t focus on work, and that makes me desperate.”
His tone says something else.
He’s not only desperate .
He’s dangerous .
So why am I not frightened? My inability to act, to move, to put an end to this right now is the most dangerous thing of all.
After a hard gulp, I find my voice. “Then maybe you should send me back to Liam. I wouldn’t want to get in the way of your work.”
“Work can fuck right off. And so can Liam.” His hand curls around my hip, squeezing twice before letting me go. “You’re not ready now, but you will be.”
I turn to face him. “No, I won’t.”
“We’ll see.” His familiar and confident smirk transforms him back into the version of Oliver I know.
Someone aloof and in control.
Not desperate or dangerous.
And I hate that I’m disappointed by how easily he buried that raw, vulnerable part of himself.