Chapter Eleven
Eden
I didn't sleep. Every time I closed my eyes I saw Gareth, standing in the dark at the end of my bed, in the moonlit garden below my balcony, in the wolf painting that had started to look less like a threat and more like a sad story I was beginning to grasp.
I tried counting breaths, then sheep, then the infinite things I wanted and would never have, and still my mind circled back to him, every single time.
And I woke up exactly how I'd fallen asleep, wearing yesterday's clothes, head pounding, lips still throbbing from memory.
My phone was dead, but my heart had been running on backup power for years. I plugged it in, checked my schedule, and tried to pretend that I could do a whole day without seeing him.
By 7:30, I gave up and hunted him down. It wasn't as hard as it should have been.
I just asked the staff if they'd seen Mr. Wolfe, and they didn't even bother to hide their smirks. When I finally caught up to him, he was on the landing outside the attic, a cardboard box under one arm and a look on his face like he'd just been bitten by a particularly literate ghost.
He looked at me like I'd materialized from his own fever dream, and for a second I let myself believe that maybe I had.
"Do you ever sleep?" I asked, hugging my arms tight so he wouldn't see how much they shook.
He didn't answer right away. Instead, he shifted the box to his other side and inspected me, head to toe, the way a jeweler looks at a flawed stone. "I was going through archives. I wanted to see if there were any records of-" He broke off, eyes narrowing. "Why are you here?"
Because you are. Because every cell in my body is a GPS tracker, and you've turned my biology into your own private north star after vague comments in the right direction by staff.
I shrugged. "I forgot to charge my phone, and I worried you might have texted me.” It was a half-truth and it sounded plausible, and I needed an excuse.
He stared at me for a second longer, then relented. "Fine. Walk with me."
We went down the back stairs, the kind that creaked on every step and made you feel like a mouse in a maze. I followed him, two paces behind, until we reached the study. He unlocked it with a key from his pocket, then stood aside and let me in first.
The room was colder than I'd remembered, all blue light and dark wood.
Books everywhere, but none of them looked like they'd been opened in the last decade. A cleverly hidden bar that had the top-shelf liquor I’d never tasted before him, not that I was ever much of a drinker.
He set the box on the desk, turned, and walked over to lock the door behind us.
My mouth went dry. This was not a casual meeting. This was not even in the ballpark of casual.
He didn't sit. No, he leaned against the desk, arms crossed, gaze fixed on me with surgical precision. For a minute I thought he was going to yell, or maybe throw the box, but instead he just waited, like he was daring me to make the first move.
So I did. I walked right up to him, stopped when there was only a foot between us, and looked at his face. He looked tired, but not in a way that could be solved by sleep. It was the tired of someone who'd been running full-speed from himself for years and had finally been cornered.
I opened my mouth to thank him. For the night we shared together. For telling me about his mother, teaching me to dance, opening up to me, all of it. But the words died on my lips, so I reached for his hand instead.
He stiffened. But he didn't pull away.
"Why did you tell me?" I whispered.
He looked at our joined hands, then at my face. His eyes were unreadable. "I don't know," he said. "I shouldn't have."
"But you did," I said.
He drew in a breath, nostrils flaring. "Don't read into it. I don't-" He broke off. "I can't afford to lose focus."
I could feel the heat of him, even through the fabric of his shirt. I wanted to crawl into his arms, feel him touch me with that reverence he’d graced me with. "Maybe you don't have to."
He made a sound, low and furious, and suddenly I was the one being pulled, crushed to his chest, his hand tangled in my hair.
The kiss was nothing like the first. This was no ballroom fairytale.
It was a controlled demolition, all teeth and hunger and the sharp edge of regret.
He kissed like he hated himself for wanting me, and I kissed back like it was the only thing keeping me alive.
We staggered backward until my hips hit the desk.
He spun me, pressed me down, and for a second I thought he was going to fuck me right there, pinned face-down to his desk, breathing in the dust of his family memories from the box on the desk beside me.
I would have let him. I would have begged for it.
Instead, he stopped. Just stopped, hands braced on either side of my body, before lowering his lips to my ear, his breathing leaving me anticipating, excited, internally begging him to put me out of my misery.
I tried to breathe, but my lungs were full of him. "What are you doing?" I asked in a breathless voice I didn’t recognize. I could feel him pressed to my backside, my body screamed for him.
He didn't answer. He just stepped back. I straightened up slowly, turning to face him as he adjusted his tie with shaking fingers, and looked at me like he'd just committed a crime. Maybe he had.
"You're impossible," he muttered.
I straightened my blouse, heart beating a Morse code of panic and need. "So are you."
We stood there, stupid and staring. I thought about leaving, but my legs wouldn't move. I thought about telling him to go to hell, but my mouth wouldn't open.
He watched me, eyes dark. "Come here."
I blinked. It wasn’t a question or an offer, it was a demand.
He held out a hand.
Every survival instinct screamed at me to run. Instead, I put my hand in his.
He pulled me into the center of the room, one arm at my waist, the other lacing our fingers together.
He was tall enough that I had to look up, which was mortifying, but I didn't care.
I didn't care about anything except the heat of his palm and the way my body fit into his, perfectly, like the answer to a question I'd never known how to ask.
He started to move, guiding me in slow, precise circles I remembered from dancing with him before. There was no music, just the sound of our breath and relentless rain. My feet tangled once, then twice, but he caught me both times, his grip never faltering.
"You can relax," he murmured, voice low and dangerous.
"I don't know how," I said.
His mouth twitched, almost a smile. "Neither do I."
We kept moving, round and round, my heart beating so hard I was sure he could hear it.
I was dizzy with it, drunk on the closeness, the rhythm of his body against mine.
He pulled me tighter, so tight I could feel every ridge of muscle under his shirt, every shudder of restraint, the hard length of him digging into my belly.
I closed my eyes, and in the dark I was safe. In the dark, I could believe that this would last.
He slowed, then stopped, but didn't let go. Instead, he bent his head, mouth at my ear. "I'm going to ruin you," he said. "You know that, right?"
My heart slammed, my thighs clenched, and I internally begged him to do it, here and now.
"Too late," I whispered.
He laughed, a sound that was both joy and sorrow, and then he kissed me again. This time it was softer, but no less desperate. He kissed me like he needed me to forgive him for everything he'd ever done wrong.
When we broke apart, we were both shaking.
He let go of my hand, but not my waist. "You should go," he said, but made no move to open the door.
I nodded, but didn't step away.
"You're bleeding," he said, and I realized I'd bitten my lip hard enough to draw blood.
"Sorry," I said, but I wasn't.
He stared at the red on my mouth, then at my eyes. "Don't ever apologize."
We stayed like that for a long time, neither of us moving. The clock on the wall ticked, and the whole world narrowed to this, two human beings holding on to each other, too scared to let go, too scared to keep going.
Finally, I pulled away. My legs were rubber, but I made it to the door. I unlocked it, turned the handle, and looked back at him.
He was still watching me, eyes wild and haunted.
"Thank you," I said, though I didn't know what for.
He nodded, once. "You're welcome."
I walked out, closed the door behind me, and leaned against the wall.
My heart was still beating, but it felt like it had changed shape.
I touched my lips, tasted salt and copper, and smiled.
I was alive.
And for the first time in my life, I wanted more.
So I closed and locked the door instead of leaving, convinced I might be making a mistake. My hands were still shaking, but the good kind of shake, the one you got after barely surviving a rollercoaster or an all-night cram session.
I didn't want to leave, not yet. And maybe he didn't either, because instead of returning to his usual marble statue pose, Gareth crossed the room and opened the cabinet that hid the good booze.
"Drink?" he said, already pouring, not waiting for a yes.
"I should say no," I said, but sat anyway.
"Suit yourself," he replied, and poured a second glass.
I watched him, the way his wrist flexed, the even pour, the tidiness of every movement. I should have been intimidated, but the last few days had broken something between us. It was still weird, but not bad weird. Just new.
He handed me the glass. The liquor was gold, probably older than either of us. I took a sip and tried not to make a face.
With an arched eyebrow and far too much restraint, he sat across from me, elbows on his knees. "Dolan," he said, and the name hit like a gut punch. "What was he like?"
For a second, all my thoughts log-jammed. People didn't usually ask about Dolan except as a formality, or as a way to tiptoe around the topic of grief. Gareth's question was blunt, but not cruel. Like he really wanted to know.