Chapter 20 Cruel #2
“This isn’t what I was hoping we would spend what precious little time we have together speaking about.” I press my hand against my middle, trying to hold myself together. “I know what’s expected. My family has arranged everything. The wedding is only three weeks away.”
“And what do you want?” The question cuts, simple and devastating. “I know this isn’t the time or place, but Clara, I want better for you.”
My lips part, but no sound comes. Because the answer is standing right in front of me, shoulders broad, curls catching the light, eyes that undo me without a single touch. But I can’t say it. Not when saying it would change everything.
“I want…” My voice breaks. “I want to feel free. Just once, before my life isn’t mine anymore.”
He closes his eyes briefly, as though the words wound him. When he opens them again, the force of his gaze nearly brings me to my knees. “Then don’t let them take it from you, Clara. Don’t let them decide for you what your heart already knows.”
Tears burn hot in my eyes, blurring the lines of his face. I shake my head, my voice trembling. “You speak as if it’s simple. As if I can just…turn my back on everything. On everyone.”
“I don’t think it’s simple.” His voice drops, thick with something unspoken. “But I think it’s crueler still to submit your life to a man that will never truly love you back.”
Silence swells between us, heavy and trembling. I can hear my heartbeat, the faint rustle of vines against the glass.
I want to cross the space. To tell him the truth. That he’s the one I see when I close my eyes, the one whose voice I crave more than breath. That I am already his, no matter what the world says.
But I don’t.
Instead, I press my palm against the letter, crumpling it slightly. “Sometimes, what we want doesn’t matter.”
His jaw tightens, but his voice is gentle. “Then may God forgive the world for that sin.”
We stand there, so close, so far, drowning in everything we’re spilling from our hearts.
The letter crumples further beneath my palm, the sharp edge biting into my skin. I want to tear it, to shred it into a hundred pieces.
“Clara,” Marcel says, his voice low, careful, like he’s afraid I’ll shatter if he’s not gentle enough. “You don’t have to do this. You don’t have to give yourself to a man you don’t love.”
Tears spill over, hot trails down my cheeks.
“And what would I do instead?” My voice breaks, bitter and aching.
“Go home to Cheyenne and tell them I’ve ruined everything?
That I’ve embarrassed my family and broken every promise they ever pinned on me?
Where would I even go, Marcel? I don’t have a place. I don’t have a future without them.”
He steps closer, the scent of earth and roses wrapping around us. His hand hovers near my arm, then falls to his side as if he’s forcing himself to keep the distance. His eyes search mine, steady and unwavering.
“You’d have me,” he says simply.
The words land like a stone in still water, sending ripples through every hidden corner of my heart.
He swallows hard, his jaw tight, his voice shaking but sure.
“If you stayed, I’d make a home for you here.
I don’t have much, but what I do have, I’d share with you.
I’d provide for you, protect you, love you the way a man is meant to love a woman.
I’d do everything I could to make you happy. I swear it.”
I can’t breathe. The truth of it—the raw, open sincerity—undoes me. My knees feel weak, my heart so loud I’m sure he must hear it.
“Marcel…” His name leaves my lips as a whisper, half prayer, half curse. “You don’t know what you’re saying.”
“I do,” he insists softly. “I’ve known from the moment I first saw you. Clara, if you asked me, I’d walk through hell to give you a life of your own choosing. I’d spend every day trying to earn the right to stand beside you.”
I shake my head, tears spilling faster now. “Don’t say that. Please don’t. You’ll make me want to believe it’s possible.”
“It is possible.” He finally dares, his fingers brushing mine where they still clutch the letter. “All you have to do is say the word, and I’m yours. We’ll figure the rest out.”
My chest heaves, torn in two. One half of me burns with longing—desperate to throw myself into his arms, to let him strip away the weight of duty and replace it with the fierce, gentle love I know he carries.
The other half feels the chains of Cheyenne clamped tight, the voices of my parents, of society, of obligation all screaming that I belong to Phillip, not to myself.
I squeeze my eyes shut, trembling. “If I could be yours—” I whisper, “I would. I want that more than anything. But I don’t know how it’s possible.”
When I open my eyes, his are bright, shining with the same unshed tears that blur mine. He doesn’t press further, doesn’t demand. He just looks at me like he’s memorizing the shape of my face, the sound of my voice, storing them away for the day when duty finally rips us apart.
“I’ll wait for you, Firefly,” he says, quiet and certain. “For as long as I have breath, even after my breath is taken from my body, I’ll wait.”
The letter lies forgotten on the floor, its edges curling against the stone. My hands tremble, not from guilt anymore but from the storm that rages in me, raw and undeniable.
“Why do you call me Firefly?”
His hand comes to my cheek, his eyes steady on mine.
“Fireflies give a hint of light before the moon fully takes over. And for me, Clara, I know how dark it will be when you leave this place. But for a moment, I get to see your light, glimpses of it against the dusk, and it makes me want to catch that light and keep it for my own.”
“Marcel, that’s…beautiful,” I whisper, the word thick with everything I’ve swallowed down. “I—"
For the briefest moment, I see him falter.
A war flashes in his eyes—gentleman against man, restraint against hunger.
But then his resolve cracks, and his mouth claims mine, not timid, but desperate.
And still, even in that desperation, he holds me like I’m breakable, like he’s afraid the force of his longing might shatter me.
And I feel it. I will never love another man.
The heat of him, the weight of his hands cupping my face, the way he drinks me in as though he’s been thirsty for years—it all floods through me, head to toe. I clutch at his shirt, pulling him closer, closer, until there’s no air left between us.
I thought kisses were meant to be polite things. Pressed lips, brief and forgettable. But this…this is revelation. This is fire searing through my veins, unmaking me in the best and most terrifying way.
He breaks away for only a heartbeat, his lips tracing along my jaw, his breath unsteady. His eyes meet mine—wide, reverent, dark. He doesn’t speak, but his expression says it all. That he would move heaven and earth if I asked him, that this moment is as holy to him as it is to me.
And then I’m kissing him again, returning his energy. The greenhouse air is thick, but all I can taste is him, warm and alive and utterly mine.
My body betrays me, aching, restless, desperate for more. I catch his wrist, guiding him closer, my breath shallow. His hand stills against my thigh, the warmth of his touch searing through the fabric of my dress. His brow creases, and his voice is rough, trembling at the edges.
“Clara,” he whispers, eyes boring into mine. “Can I…lift your dress?”
The question breaks apart every bit of decency in me. My lips part, the answer escaping quickly. “Yes.”
His fingers gather my skirt and slip beneath the hem, slowly inching higher. The first brush of his hand against my center makes me gasp, my nails digging into his shoulder. He swallows hard, then kisses me again, deeper, almost desperate, as his touch grows bolder.
The pressure, the friction, the shocking intimacy—it’s more than I ever imagined. Each kiss is more consuming, each stroke of his fingers an unraveling. I cling to him, to the solidness of his chest, to the way he looks at me like I’m the most terrifyingly beautiful thing he’s ever seen.
Heat coils inside me, winding tighter and tighter until it’s unbearable. I break from his mouth with a gasp, burying my face against his shoulder as wave after wave overtakes me. My body shudders in his arms, trembling, undone, unable to catch my breath.
I didn’t know pleasure would feel like this.
His hands anchor me, strong and steady, while his lips brush my temple, my hairline, anywhere he can reach as though he needs to remind me I’m still here, still real. And when I finally lift my head, his eyes are wet. With wonder. With awe. With something deeper than words could hold.
We don’t speak. We stay pressed together, chests heaving, hearts pounding in time, the air between us filled with the sound of what we’ve done and the unspoken truth of what it means.
For the first time in my life, I feel alive.
And it’s because of him.