Chapter Nine
Kieran sat in his office. Or, prison, was more apt under recent circumstances.
He had never felt trapped by the confines of these walls before.
Usually, it was his own studious nature and desire to do his job thoroughly that kept him locked inside his office for most of his workday.
Now, it was to avoid what awaited outside the door.
Or, rather, who.
Seraphina.
Fight as he did to resist seeking her out or worse—initiating a round of her Game where he would welcome her defeat if just to hear her moan once more—his control of the situation was crumbling.
Yet, he knew the risks of attachment to her.
He had only to think of the loss of his siblings to fear the outcome more than he wanted to indulge the desire.
Days passed and Kieran was no closer to ending his torment.
Assuming Harrow delivered the message as promised, then Wraith’s next move would, potentially, be to investigate the claims. Wraith was from a world where loyalty wouldn’t be shifted on the word of strangers.
He may need to look into Cole’s intentions himself and then he would have to determine what was to be done.
If his reputation was any indication, then Cole was not likely to survive.
The shadow had dissipated yesterday. A sign that Wraith had intervened in Cole's plan? It was hard to say, but that seemed the most likely explanation. The loss of shadow was not the relief he suspected.
It was only through practiced willpower that he could still see it at all, but now he was left wondering, guessing.
He had not slipped in maintaining his distance from Sera in the days since meeting with Harrow.
When she had started to panic outside her brother’s home, the restraint that stilled his hand had been physically painful.
The urge to soothe her fears, to reach out and brush the hair from her face, had nearly killed him.
Thankfully, his words worked well enough to ease her breathing and pull her back to the present.
But it was a close call all the same. Too close. He was well past any inclinations that he could solve this intense longing for her physically by allowing himself to touch her or…
He closed his eyes. Ninety-eight. Ninety-seven.
His subconscious had managed to temper nearly all of the suffocating guilt that surfaced whenever his thoughts returned to their kiss.
Each time he relived the moment it was harder to recall why he had fled.
Instead, when his mind returned to that room it was not to remind him how wrong he had been, but to plague him with memories of her taste, her warmth, the excitement and pleasure.
What’s done is done, but you can’t deny she liked it.
He refused to listen.
She’s an adult. If she truly felt the victim she would tell you.
No.
Imagine how she would feel intimately, wrapped around you, begging you to taste every inch of almond scented skin.
Enough. It was not that simple. He couldn’t let himself succumb to this weakness, because Sera tempted more than just his body.
Had he merely needed to refrain from pleasuring her senseless, then the task might have been bearable, or at the very least easily attainable.
Sera seemed to be shutting him out as well, throwing pointed comments at him at every opportunity.
No, if this was only lust then he would not be on the verge of losing all shreds of control.
He also had to resist any action that might be construed as affectionate.
No more thoughtful gestures or attempts to win her favor or ensure her comfort.
No more showing her sights or the new experiences she craved or inquiring after her feelings.
This was a cold, full stop embargo on her person and it was the greatest test of his patience he’d ever encountered.
As difficult as that may be when she’d charmed his very staff to do shopping specifically for her.
Coffee? They certainly hadn’t stocked the more primitive drink for his enjoyment.
Yet there was Sera, holding one of his cups with a steaming concoction of beans that had to have come from Tarely’s keen observation and hospitality.
Kieran’s instructions were to make them comfortable, acquire a few preferred meals, not to have mugs of warm coffee waiting as Sera left for the day.
The truth of the matter was that the allure, the all consuming pull, was entirely Sera.
It was more than looks or lust. There was some undeniable spark that was unquestionably her causing this fissure in his control.
Her keen intelligence—that filled him with acute rage whenever she downplayed her genius or the pure venom that followed every time the word ‘stupid’ left her lips—that he respected, an earnest playfulness that he loathed to call adorable.
She took what she wanted and followed her impulses, while he denied himself everything.
She expressed desire with a freedom he envied.
She shook an unmistakably masculine need to fix all the wrongs the world had done her. Even if he found the notion rather primitive, that deep rooted drive to protect her, hold her, shield her from any and all hurt was quite powerful.
If, however, challenging, he managed to shake away thoughts of Sera, then his mind simply wandered to the everything else he was neglecting.
Would their gambit work in ending Hawthorne’s threat?
What of his proposal for the parks? Did he remember to review Alderman-elect Arabelle Hargrove’s campaign promises?
Did she have plans to combat the illicit drug, Divinity, her predecessor unleashed on the city? What was Sera doing right now?
Kieran set two fingers on either side of his temple, practically growling though it was more a low rumble in his throat. The rush of thoughts threatened to become too much. He longed for the distraction and, dare he admit it, numbing oblivion of Sera’s Game.
It can’t be real if it’s only a game.
Yes. That made some sense. He would not risk falling if their connection was rooted in challenge.
Games are pretend.
Pretending was fiction, fleeting.
He entertained ripping the door open and dragging her inside. Kieran actually stood from his chair, hands on the desk as he breathed. He remained standing, resisting the impulse with growing strain.
Stacks of documents, mail, and notifications grew to his left and right.
His ordered desk looked almost cluttered.
Words blurred together every time he attempted to read.
Every quiet moment was bombarded with stress.
He closed his eyes, knuckles white as his fingertips strained against the wood of a perfectly clean, empty work surface.
He no longer bothered with the pretense of productivity after so many days of nothing.
But would this not be using her?
Not if she wants it too.
“You are stronger than this,” he growled to the empty room. A deep breath in and then out through his nose.
Fifty-three. Fifty-two.
His shoulders relaxed. Control regained.
Whether he was actually stronger than this or not was irrelevant, he had to be stronger.
Or he risked her safety and that was unacceptable.
He was about to sit back down when the office door was thrown open and the object of his torment barreled into the room without a care for his suffering.
Kieran willed himself to remain immobile. Kept the shock from his face and refused to allow the agony of her presence to slip even a fraction into his visage. He hovered over his desk like a deranged animal and struggled to conceal the signs that, just seconds ago, he had been ready to snap.
Sera continued forward, her attention on the pages in her hand and oblivious to what simmered in his veins.
Her hair was half done in a twisting, elaborate design that left most of the longer inky strands free to float over slender shoulders.
The emerald satin of her dress contrasted her pale skin so that every bare inch was near illuminated against the dark tone, her arms and neckline exposed in a way that bordered scandalous without quite crossing the boundary.
“I was going to wait until you left, but it’s been hours and I can’t sit anymore.
” Sera scanned the pages cradled in her arm.
She squinted to read from the top piece, and he detected only marginal hesitation over the larger words, “Asche’s schedule cleared and they were able to find an agreeable time to reconvene about Divinity.
It’s a week from today at three, they want you to send confirmation for the date.
Wilde’s secretary came by and dropped off…
oh shit, I left those on my desk. I’ll grab it in a second.
You have an appointment coming up, forgot the name, it’s on a note…
um,” she flipped the page over and scanned, “also still at my desk. And last, an invitation to Levity Fairchild’s ball welcoming the new alderman to the Night Court, Arabelle Hargrove—” She looked up from her paper. “A ball?”
His breathing remained even and controlled, not even a hitch in his pulse. Though he dared not move yet. He kept his gaze steady and tone neutral. “What are you asking, Sera?”
“Just… if this is a ball, as in, a fancy party where you dress up nice and dance…” The word dance left her lips with a wistful sort of reverence. Fuck.
Forty. Thirty-nine.
“You wish to attend,” he finished for her, knowing exactly where her fanciful thought was heading.
“Yes! Please, I know there are more important things going on, but they should be resolved soon enough, I’m sure.”
Wishful thinking. Though he didn’t say as much aloud.
“I’ve never dreamed of being invited to a ball,” she continued.
“You haven’t been invited. The invitation is for me,” he said, still standing above his desk. Had she entered a few seconds sooner, he feared his manners would have been less controlled.