CHAPTER 15. STORM #3
I don’t even notice when sleep takes me. After everything that happened, whatever hours of rest we got after sunrise are the best I’ve had in days—solid, undisturbed, wrapped in Xavier’s arms. I barely register the pain in my leg, and when I wake, it’s already afternoon.
But the bed next to me is empty.
For a second, I just stare at the sheets—unsure, half convinced I imagined it all.
I sit up fast, not caring about the pull in my thigh. Then I spot Xavier’s shirt beside the bed.
So it was real.
My chest loosens a little, but I still need to see him—just to be sure.
I get up and leave the bedroom, heading down the hallway toward the kitchen. My pulse kicks up again, and then I see him—Xavier, in a clean gravel-gray shirt and blue pants, standing at the stove. Frying something.
The smell hits me right away—savory, a little greasy.
“Morning,” I say, trying to sound casual.
Xavier turns at once. He’s wearing an apron—slung around his neck, untied—and when our eyes meet, he freezes.
“Hi,” he says, a little too quickly, then clears his throat. “How’s your leg?”
His cheeks tint—just slightly. And for the first time, I realize: Xavier Ormond is shy.
I don’t blame him. It’s one thing to want someone in the dark. It’s another to mean it in daylight.
“It’s good,” I say, stopping a few feet away as the awkwardness finally catches up with me. “I can walk.” I laugh a little. “Bandages look clean, too.” I glance down at the gauze.
“That’s good,” he says, visibly relieved.
We just stand there for a second, looking at each other. Quiet. Uncertain.
Then I glance toward the stove. Bacon sizzles in the pan.
“What are you making?”
“Breakfast,” he says—and that’s when I notice the two plates on the counter. Eggs, avocado, toast. Everything already plated.
“I was going to bring it to you,” Xavier adds, looking away as color rises in his cheeks again.
“Breakfast in bed?” I ask, smiling.
He nods, a little stiffly, the blush creeping down his neck now. I can see how unsure he is, and something about it is so endearing I can’t stand it. So I close the space between us, slip my arms around his neck, and pull him down.
His breath hitches—like all his focus narrows to just me.
I kiss him. His arms come around me instantly, wrapping tight around my bare torso as he kisses me back.
“Morning,” I whisper when we part.
He leans in, resting his forehead against mine, eyes closed, his breath warm between us—and he doesn’t let go.
“Are we good after last night?” I ask—surprised by how direct that comes out. It’s not how I usually talk to Xavier.
“You tell me,” he whispers, eyes still shut, like he’s bracing for the answer. His thumbs trace slow circles against the small of my back.
“I’m amazing,” I say—and he opens his eyes, searching my face like he needs to see it to believe it.
“Are you sure?” he asks quietly—uncertain in a way I rarely see from him.
“Yes,” I say, laughing a little. Then I kiss him again—firmer this time, with intent.
It’s not a good morning kiss anymore. It deepens fast, turning hungry in seconds. Xavier exhales hard against my mouth, arms tightening around me, his hands finding my ass and pulling me in. His tongue slides against mine—slow, hot, greedy—and just like that, we’re gone again.
His hands grip my hips, grinding us together, and I feel how hard he is. We both exhale—ragged, in sync. The fact that Xavier gets this turned on just from kissing throws me a little. And yeah—it’s insanely hot.
Then he turns me around and backs me into the counter, his mouth dragging down my neck. One hand slips into my boxers and wraps around my cock. I’m hard too—obviously—and the way he touches me makes my knees buckle.
“Fuck,” I breathe, as his thumb slides over the head. “X-Xavier…”
“Newt,” he murmurs against my skin, leaving another bite on my neck. Of course he does. That’s already a thing with him.
“Ah—” I moan, my body buzzing with arousal, but then something flickers at the edge of my vision. I turn—instinctive—and freeze.
There’s someone standing in the living room doorway.
A man in a suit.
Ernest. His face unreadable, caught somewhere between disbelief and barely contained fury.
“Xavier…” I mutter, trying to pull away.
“Yes?” he murmurs, distracted, still at my neck—until he looks up and sees my face. His whole body tightens. “What is it?”
I nod toward the doorway.
He turns—sees Ernest—and finally lets go of me with a low, irritated breath.
Ernest doesn’t move. Just stands there, stiff and silent, eyes locked on us like he’s still trying to process what he’s seeing.
Xavier shifts in front of me, blocking Ernest’s view—probably very aware I’m still hard, though that’s fading fast now.
“Were you born in a cave, Uncle?” Xavier says, a little sharp. I can see the side of his face and neck burning red. “Ever heard of knocking?”
“Your lock is broken.”
“How about calling ahead?”
“You ignore my calls,” Ernest replies, nose slightly up, lips curled with faint distaste. “I heard about the attack. You can imagine my concern.”
“How did you hear about it?” Xavier asks, crossing his arms. “I thought we got rid of all your bugs.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Ernest says, voice flat. “I’m just glad to see you’re still alive.”
There’s a long, awkward pause. Then Xavier says, voice dry, “Did you get fired or something? You’ve been around a lot lately.”
“I can’t get fired from my own company.” Ernest’s mouth tightens. “Now, can we speak for a moment?”
“We are speaking,” Xavier says.
“Alone. With Newton.”
“I’ll go,” I say, already starting to move—but Xavier slides an arm in front of me, stopping me where I am.
“Absolutely not.”
Ernest’s gaze lingers on the space between us. “May I ask what this is?”
“You may not,” Xavier says.
Ernest exhales—slow, almost patient. “I have a right to know. You’re my heir. That might affect things.”
“I didn’t ask to be your heir,” Xavier says, his voice flat with exhaustion. “In fact, I never wanted to be.”
Ernest looks almost offended, his jaw tightening like he’s been slapped. Then his gaze shifts past Xavier to me—as if I’m the reason his nephew wants nothing to do with him.
“Didn’t you have an engagement lined up with your ex, Mr. Doherty? Or are you planning to marry my nephew now? Hard to say, since you don’t seem to know what you want.”
The irritation hits before I even open my mouth. “I do know what I want,” I say, arms crossing. “I’m marrying your nephew.”
The second the words leave my mouth, both Ormonds freeze—then turn to stare at me, equally stunned. Xavier looks like he might either kiss me or slam me into the counter again. Maybe both. Ernest looks like he wants to slap me.
“Let me speak with you privately, Mr. Doherty,” Ernest says, not bothering to hide his irritation.
“No,” Xavier snaps again, but I catch him by the elbow.
“I’ll talk to him,” I say, giving his arm a reassuring squeeze. “Maybe he’ll leave us alone then.”
Xavier sighs, hesitates—but doesn’t argue.
I leave him in the kitchen and step past his uncle into the living room, pulling the door shut behind us. I’m acutely aware that I’m still in my boxers. Oh well—being half-naked while Ernest Ormond lectures me is apparently becoming a recurring theme.
He walks to the front door, putting distance between us and the kitchen, then turns back and folds his arms. His expression stays composed, but his eyes burn.
“Is this some kind of joke?” he asks. “Are you two trying to mess with me?”
“We’re not,” I say, crossing my arms over my chest—mirroring his posture without meaning to. Mostly just trying to cover myself up a little.
“Then why are you doing this?” Ernest presses, like he hasn’t heard me at all. “Is it for PR?”
I snort. Not even dignifying that with a response.
“Do you want money? We can talk about it.”
“Jesus,” I mutter, wincing. “What the hell is wrong with you?”
“What’s wrong with me?” Ernest snaps. “I’m trying to protect my nephew.”
“He doesn’t need protection,” I shoot back, heat rising in my chest. “Not from me. And I’m not after his fame or his money.”
“Then why?” he demands. “Why are you doing this?”
I blink, my lips twitching in something that isn’t a smile. There’s nothing funny about it.
“You know why.”
Ernest exhales hard, the tension shifting in his posture. He uncrosses his arms and curls his hands into fists at his sides.
“You don’t understand,” he says. “He’s not like you. He’s…different. And you’re going to break his heart.”
I almost laugh—because wow, Ernest Ormond actually cares. He’s not just here to be a thorn in Xavier’s side; he’s trying to protect him in his own twisted way.
“That’s…surprisingly decent of you,” I say, smiling now, genuinely. “But Xavier and I can handle it ourselves.”
Ernest doesn’t flinch. He just looks at me for a moment, then says, completely deadpan, “Are you two having sex?”
I nearly choke. Seriously? What kind of question is that?
“I’m not answering that,” I say flatly.
He hesitates, then—like he can’t quite believe he’s asking—says, “Do you love him?”
But I don’t get the chance to answer—because the kitchen door bursts open, and Xavier storms in, eyes blazing.
“OUT!” he shouts. “Get out!”
Before Ernest can get another word in, Xavier swings the front door open and all but shoves him into the hallway.
Ernest—composed, dignified, and far too self-important for this kind of handling—doesn’t stand a chance.
The moment he’s out, Xavier shuts the door and leans back against it, like he needs a second to recover.
“Were you listening?” I ask, raising an eyebrow.
Xavier glances over, guilt flickering in his eyes—then his gaze drops to my bandaged thigh.
“How’s your leg?” he asks.
“You already asked,” I say, my lips twitching at the change of topic. “It’s fine. But I need to take my pills. Come on—let’s eat first.”
He just looks at me for a moment, then nods and steps away from the door, giving it a quick glance, like he half expects Ernest to come crashing back in.