Chapter 4
CHAPTER FOUR
Elias
The fireworks start at nine.
I've paid for every single one of them.
Paid for the caterers and the band.
Paid for the decorations strung between the old oaks, the porta-potties, the parking attendants, the off-duty deputies keeping order at the gates.
The whole town is on my lawn, eating my food and drinking my wine, celebrating independence on land my family has owned for over two hundred years.
The irony isn't lost on me.
I stand on the upper terrace, whiskey in hand, and watch them mill about like ants at a picnic.
The mayor is holding court near the barbecue pit, probably angling for a campaign donation.
The fire chief is on his third plate of ribs.
Everyone is happy. Everyone is grateful.
They have no idea what I take.
What I'm about to claim.
My eyes find her without trying.
They always do.
It's instinct now—this pull toward her, this gravity that drags my gaze across any room until it lands on dark hair and green eyes and a body I've memorized from photographs but have barely touched.
Liberty stands at the edge of the crowd, near the rose garden, a glass of something she hasn't touched clutched in her hand.
She's wearing a white sundress that makes her tan skin glow in the fading light, and her dark hair is loose around her shoulders for once.
My mouth goes dry.
Eight years of photographs. Eight years of reports, surveillance footage, and secondhand accounts.
None of it prepared me for the reality of her being back home.
For the way my chest aches when I look at her, this hollow hunger that no amount of waiting has ever satisfied.
She looks beautiful. She looks furious.
I take a slow sip of whiskey and let myself drink her in instead.
She knows. I can see it in the rigid line of her spine, the way her eyes keep cutting toward the main house.
The tension vibrates through her body like a plucked string, and I want to put my hands on her and feel it hum beneath my palms.
She figured it out. Faster than I expected, but then, she always was clever.
That's part of why I want her.
I wonder how she did it.
The apartment, probably.
Diana was always the weak link—too soft, too prone to guilt. I should’ve paid her more. Or threatened her more.
It doesn't matter now.
Liberty knows, and she's still here.
Still standing on my property, surrounded by my people, trapped in the cage I spent years building.
She could run. Could make a scene, tell Gracie, try to turn the town against me.
She won't.
Because I have her parents. Because I have her options.
Because no matter which direction she turns, she'll find me already there, waiting, patient as stone.
Except I don't feel patient right now.
I feel like I'm going to crawl out of my skin if I don't touch her in the next five minutes.
I finish my whiskey and set the glass on the railing.
My hand is steady. My heart is not.
It’s time to remind her who she belongs to.
I take the stairs down to the lawn, nodding at people as I pass.
The Yanceys want to thank me for the scholarship I gave their son.
Mrs. Shiflett wants to discuss the library expansion.
I give them all what they want. A moment of my attention. The performance of being a good man.
But my blood is pounding in my ears, and my skin feels too tight.
Every step that brings me closer to Liberty makes the ache in my chest sharpen into something that borders on pain.
She sees me coming.
I watch her body tense, her fingers tighten on her glass, the war play out across her face—fight or flight, rage or retreat.
She doesn't run.
Good girl.
I stop in front of her, close enough to see the pulse fluttering in her throat.
Close enough to smell her—vanilla and something darker underneath, something that's purely her.
I breathe it in like a drowning man breaking the surface.
"Liberty." I keep my voice pleasant. Conversational. Give nothing away. "Enjoying the party?"
Her eyes blaze, green fire in the fading light. "You know I'm not."
"Do I?" I tilt my head, letting a smile curl at the corner of my mouth. "You seem upset. Is something wrong?"
She laughs, and the sound is harsh, broken. Heads turn nearby.
"Is something wrong?" She crosses her arms, fingers digging into her biceps hard enough to leave marks. "You want to do this here? In front of everyone?"
"I'd prefer somewhere more private." I gesture toward the upper terrace, the one that overlooks the lawn and the valley beyond. "The fireworks will be starting soon. Best view in the house."
"I'm not going anywhere with you." She plants her feet, jaw tight.
"Aren't you?" I step closer, dropping my voice so only she can hear. Close enough that I can feel the heat radiating off her skin. "We both know you have questions. I have answers. And I'd rather not have this conversation where the whole town can watch you fall apart."
Her jaw tightens.
I see the calculation behind her eyes—the soldier assessing the battlefield, weighing her options.
She has none. She knows it.
"Fine." She bites the word off like it tastes foul, then turns toward the stairs without waiting for me.
I follow, letting myself watch the rigid fury in her shoulders, the way her hands curl into fists at her sides.
The white dress clings to her hips as she climbs, and I have to force myself not to reach out and touch her.
Not yet. Not yet.
The upper terrace is empty. I planned it that way—had Grady rope it off an hour ago, citing safety concerns. No one will interrupt us up here.
Liberty and me. And the fireworks. And the truth she's been circling for days.
I stop at the stone railing and turn to face her.
She's standing ten feet back, arms crossed, chin lifted. Ready for battle.
The last light of sunset catches her hair, turns it copper at the edges, and my fingers itch to bury themselves in it.
To fist it tight and pull her head back and finally, finally taste her mouth.
I curl my hands into fists at my sides instead.
"Ask," I say.
"Ask what?" She doesn't move, doesn't uncross her arms.
"Whatever you came up here to ask." I spread my hands, a gesture of openness I don't feel. "I'll tell you the truth. I've never lied to you, Liberty. I'm not going to start now."
She stares at me for a long moment. The silence stretches between us, thick with everything we're not saying.
"The apartment. That was you."
"Yes."
"The jobs. All of them."
"Yes."
"My parents. The roof, the medical bills, the—" Her voice cracks. She swallows hard, and I watch her throat work, watch her force the words out through sheer will. "The grant that wasn't a grant."
"Yes."
Each admission lands like a blow.
I watch her absorb them, watch the understanding settle into her bones, and something dark and satisfied unfurls in my chest.
She knows now. She knows what I am. What I've done.
And she's still standing here.
"How long?" Her voice is barely a whisper.
"How long what?"
"How long have you been doing this?" She takes a step toward me, hands dropping to her sides, curling into fists. "Controlling my life. Manipulating everything around me. How long, Elias?"
I consider lying. Consider softening the blow, making it easier for her to swallow.
But I've waited eight years to have this conversation. I'm not going to waste it on lies.
"Since you left."
She goes pale.
The color drains from her face so fast I think she might faint, and I have to lock my knees to keep from reaching for her.
"Eight years." The words fall out of her mouth like stones. "You've been doing this for eight goddamned years."
"I've been waiting for you for eight years." I keep my voice gentle. "It's different."
"There is nothing different about it!" Her voice cracks across the terrace like a whip, and the sound of it—the raw fury, the betrayal—makes my cock twitch in my pants.
"You've been stalking me. Controlling me.
You—you paid someone in the VA, didn't you?
That's how you know about my nightmares. About Martinez."
I don't deny it.
"You've been inside my life for eight years, and I never knew." She's pacing now, hands in her hair, breath coming in short gasps. "I thought I was free. I thought I got away. I thought—"
"You were never free." I keep my voice calm. Soft. The voice you use with frightened animals. "You were never going to get away. The moment I saw you, Liberty—the moment you looked at me like you could see exactly what I was—I knew."
"Knew what?" She stops pacing, stares at me with wild eyes.
"That you were mine."
She goes still. Completely, utterly still, like a rabbit in the shadow of a hawk.
The silence stretches between us, heavy and electric.
"You're insane."
"Probably." I take a step toward her. She takes a step back. "But that doesn't make it any less true."
"I'm not yours. I've never been yours. I don't belong to anyone—"
"You've belonged to me since you were sixteen years old." Another step. She hits the railing, nowhere left to retreat, and satisfaction floods through me, hot and dark. "You felt it too. Don't pretend you didn't. That pull between us—you felt it every time I walked into a room. That's why you ran."
"I ran because you terrified me."
"No." I stop in front of her, close enough to see the gold flecks in her green eyes, to count her eyelashes, that her breath ghosts across my lips when she exhales. "You ran because you terrified yourself. Because you knew if you stayed, you'd give in. And you weren't ready."
Her breath is coming fast now.
I can see her pulse hammering in the hollow of her throat.
Her pupils are blown wide, black swallowing the green, and her lips are parted, and she's so close I could kiss her if I leaned forward two inches.
I don't.
Not yet.
"I'm ready now," I tell her. "Are you?"
She slaps me.
The crack echoes across the terrace, sharp and sudden.
My head snaps to the side.
Pain blooms across my cheek, hot and bright, and my blood sings with it.
My cock hardens in my pants, straining against the zipper, and I have to close my eyes for a moment to absorb the sweet shock of it.
She hit me.
She actually hit me.
I turn back to her slowly, deliberately, and I smile.