23. Christian
“Ireally am sorry,” I repeat, still standing by the trash can.
I want desperately to make amends, but throwing away the paper seems like such a paltry gesture in the face of how I’ve treated Cataleya. I can’t think of any other way to show her that I mean what I say.
Just this morning I was screaming in her face, accusing her of cheating, yelling over her desperate attempts to make me see the truth. It seems unfair that I should be here now, as if nothing ever happened.
I hang my head in shame, wishing I had better words to express my deep regret.
To my surprise, she crosses the room and stops just in front of me. I see kindness in her eyes, relief even, and I’m grateful for this second chance. I know it’s entirely undeserved.
“It’s fine,” Cataleya tells me gently, waving her hand as if to wipe it all away. “I’m not entirely innocent myself.”
Her words take me by surprise, and I shoot her quizzical look, wondering what she means. The way I see it, I’m the asshole here, but I can see there’s remorse in her eyes, too.
“I should have told you I was coming to New York,” she explains, shaking her head. There’s more than a hint of regret in her voice. “And not just that. The last few weeks… I’m sorry I’ve been avoiding you. I have the tendency to just run away when things get difficult. I mean, that’s how I ended up in New York in the first place.”
She laughs self-consciously, and the levity of her words ease the tension in the air. I even manage a half-smile, acknowledging that we’ve both acted childishly. I only hope we’ve both learned our lesson.
“Come on,” she says, taking me gently by the hand. She leads me to the couch, and we both sit down. It’s comforting, and I suddenly realize how tired I am. I’ve mostly sobered up by now, but a day of downing straight whiskey is certainly taking its toll on me.
But it’s not just that. The tension that has been keeping me on a razor’s edge for the last few weeks seems to have finally dissipated. Here, in the comfort of Cataleya’s apartment, just the two of us, I feel at home. There’s a comfort in this place, in Cataleya’s company and, most of all, in finally being able to talk again. It’s a relief I’ve been holding out for.
With great care, she leans forward, inspecting the wounds on my skin. They’re barely worth looking at, I know that, but she seems intent on tending to me and I’m not about to argue. Who am I to reject the soft touch of her warm hands?
“Let me get something to take care of this,” she tells me, shooting me a warm look of compassion.
After fetching some cotton wool and warm water, she returns, but her presence is all the salve I need. With great care, Cataleya cleans my wounds ever so softly. The feeling of her hands on my skin is enough to wash away any vestiges of fear between us, and I feel myself relax even further into her care. It seems like so long since I touched her, and I drink in the sensation. It’s practically intoxicating, sending waves of pleasure through my body.
I realize, with a pang to my heart, that I’ve really missed her.
As Cataleya concentrates, I take the opportunity to study her face. Her hair falls gently across her brow, ending in wisps that brush softly against my chest. Her hazel eyes, focused on my wounds, show a depth of care that makes my heart stir.
Her soft lips, those lips I still long to kiss, are parted slightly in concentration. I want to memorize this moment, memorize every detail in her face, every eyelash, every line.
Suddenly, her eyes flick up to meet my gaze as if she could feel me watching her.
“What is it?” she asks, her eyebrows creasing slightly, as if she questions my intent stare.
“You’re truly beautiful,” I admit, the words spilling out of me before I can stop them.
For a second, the compliment hangs in the air between us, the moment pregnant with anticipation. All I want is to lean forward and kiss her, but I’m still hesitant. I don’t want to scare her away all over again, but I also can’t pretend I don’t feel this intense attraction to her.
Finally, Cataleya laughs and shakes her head. “I think you’re still drunk,” she tells me dismissively. “You need to eat something.”
With that, she stands up, moving toward the kitchen and leaving me to gaze after her.
I can’t stop staring, though, can’t stop longing for her touch. As she whips out a blender and prepares a soup for us, I stand and let my feet carry me into the kitchen.
As Cataleya cooks, I lean against the countertop behind her, watching her graceful movements, the way she prepares everything with meticulous care. Somehow it’s this simple act that causes a wave of emotion to swell within me.
Her words on the garden bench that night come back to me. What would I do if I wasn’t Prince Christian, but just Christian?
The answer comes so strongly, so suddenly, that I don’t even consider fighting it. Instead, I step forward, letting my hands find Cataleya’s waist. I wrap my arms around her, pressing my body into hers as she cooks. Her movements slow, and I feel her surrendering into my touch.
“I’m going crazy because of you,” I whisper in her ear, letting my warm breath caress her neck. “Sometimes I feel like I can’t think straight when you’re near.”
The intensity of the confession courses through my whole body. I feel like I’m practically vibrating with the truth that I’m finally allowing myself to admit.
I can’t see Cataleya’s face, but I can feel the way she’s responding to my touch, the way her body fits perfectly into my embrace, the way she leans back ever so slightly as if to close even the slight gap between us.
Her breath quickens as my words hang in the air between us. But she says nothing. Unable to stand the silence anymore, I implore her.
“What should I do?” I ask, my voice strained with the weight of my longing. “Do you feel the same way?”
The seconds after I speak feel like hours, and my heart pounds as I wait for her reply. I know I’m risking everything by telling her this, especially after the way she reacted to the night in the garden.
A thousand questions flow through my mind, along with several worst-case scenarios as I wait for her to answer. I know that this could go so, so wrong. But I can’t hold back anymore, I couldn”t keep pretending I wasn’t crazy about her. If this is the end of it all, then so be it. At least I’ve finally been truthful.
Cataleya stirs, pulling away from me, and for a second my stomach drops, thinking I’ve insulted her. Instead of retreating, she turns until she’s facing me. My arms are still wrapped around her, and she’s pressed close to me.
From the chest down, the warmth of her body presses flush against mine. Her curves fit me like a puzzle piece. Her hands rest on my chest and she looks up at me. My heart races as I gaze down into her hazel eyes—those eyes that are staring at me with so much unspoken meaning.
Her breath warms my lips and I wait, breathless, for her to answer.
But she doesn’t say a word. She doesn’t have to. Instead, she leans in, bringing her lips to mine with such emotion, that I feel my heart swell.
Her lips are so soft that I could lose myself in them, and when I part my lips to kiss her more deeply, she responds immediately. I hear her let out a soft groan, and when I let my tongue explore her mouth, she presses her body into me.
It’s a kiss heavy with emotion, with all we’ve been holding back on, and I hope she feels, in the way I kiss her, in the way I hold her, how much she really means to me.