25. Hugo
25
HUGO
I’ve always loved stillness—the kind that arrives late at night once the city’s restless energy finally settles. Even one as small as Auclair has that energy, and after the town falls asleep, the stillness creeps in like a blanket of calm.
It reminds me of standing in a grand art gallery after closing hours, that hush wrapping around you like a soft, dark cloak. Here, in the house I bought for Sam, Trick, and me, that same kind of stillness has taken hold—except it crackles with unspoken tension.
A few hours ago, this space thrummed with life. Now, we are sprawled out in the master bedroom, exhausted, limbs packaged in the sheets from the earlier fun we shared with Marie. We pushed ourselves to the brink, each exploring that heady rush of belonging to her.
I don’t sleep deeply. Not normally, and certainly not tonight. My senses are on high alert, winding down only grudgingly. Beside me, Trick breathes slowly, drifting toward genuine rest. Sam is splayed on his side with an arm flung over his eyes, looking more peaceful than I have ever seen. Which leaves me lying awake, mind buzzing despite the comfortable warmth of the bed.
I’m not the only one awake. Marie sits at the edge of the mattress, hair mussed from our prior activities. She’s wearing one of Sam’s old T-shirts, which practically swallows her. The sight is endearing, and part of me wants to drag her back under the covers for another go…but I sense a nervous energy beneath her skin.
She’s not in the mood to slip back into half-dazed passion. She’s thinking, and I can guess about what.
A single lamp in the corner casts soft light, revealing the sleek lines of the house I once thought of as a testament to my wealth and taste. Polished concrete floors, floor-to-ceiling windows, modern furniture. Yet all of that feels insignificant right now. My focus narrows to Marie, the faint flicker in her eyes that suggests a million questions swirl in her mind.
There is a look every woman gets when there is something she needs to say. Some are better at hiding it than others. But all of them, when they know they must speak, get that look. Marie has it now.
I rise, slipping out of the sheets, careful to not wake Sam or Trick, and cross the short distance to her side. The bed is custom-made, though tonight it still felt too small for the four of us. That thought almost makes me smile.
I settle on the mattress near her, posture angled so I can see her face without overshadowing her. “Is everything all right?”
She turns, meeting my gaze. There’s a worry line between her brows that tugs at my heart. “This place, what happened tonight, the three of you…everything.” Her lips press together. “I can’t sleep.”
I nod, letting out a low hum. “I understand. It’s a lot.” My accent slides into my voice more than I want it to. But around Marie, I cannot seem to hold it back. “Come,” I add, standing and holding out a hand. “We can let them rest. Let’s talk somewhere else.”
She glances over her shoulder at the two sleeping men. Sam hasn’t so much as stirred, and Trick just snores softly. A faint smile ghosts her mouth. She threads her fingers through mine, and I guide her off the bed. We grab an extra throw blanket, then cross into the living room until we find ourselves near the floor-to-ceiling windows. Moonlight glimmers outside over the river, and I wonder whether the alligators are out and hunting now.
I flick on a small lamp near the window. The plush couch beckons, but she sits on the ottoman, her posture tense and her arms around her knees. I claim the armchair across from her, though I suspect we’ll be side by side soon enough. “What weighs on your mind?”
She exhales. “So many things. We’re…what are we, exactly? The four of us? And I’m happy, but it’s terrifying. And then Dad…he’s not going to be okay with this, is he? And how can I choose?” Her voice trembles, but she keeps it under control. “I feel guilty, excited, confused, all at once.”
I let silence stretch for a beat, gathering my thoughts. She has finally spoken, but she still bears the look of a woman with too many things on her mind. Calling her out now will not help things, so I redirect.
“Your father is a formidable man. He’s also someone we’ve known and respected for years. I intend to speak with him. We all do. But I’ll personally see if I can soften his objections.”
“You can’t do that,” she says, her voice tinged with panic.
My mouth quirks in a faint, wry smile. “I’ve convinced more powerful men than him to do our bidding. Preacher is stubborn, but I suspect he loves you enough to adapt.” I rest an elbow on the arm of the chair, leaning in. “Don’t let him steal your joy or your freedom. That’s not what you want, is it?”
She shakes her head, tears brimming. “No. But I can’t stand him hating me, or thinking I’m…immoral or something.”
I nod. “As I said, he’ll adapt. He is your father. He wants you to be happy. More than that, he wants you to be safe. He could have one of us watching out for you, or three of us. It is simple math. He will see things our way.”
She softens just a fraction. “I’m sorry. I guess I’m overthinking everything.”
“When we step outside the norm, that’s natural. But you’re not alone, love.” The endearment slips out. I don’t apologize for it. I never will. “We four share this, whatever it is. We’ll handle the details. Together.”
“Okay,” she whispers. “Thank you.”
I stand, crossing the space and settling on the ottoman beside her. My arm drapes around her shoulders, and she nestles into my side. “So,” I say, conjuring a teasing note, “the rest of your questions revolve around the four of us, hmm? That we are nontraditional ?”
She snorts softly. “Understatement. But it’s good, right? I mean, you’re all so different. And me? I’m just a librarian who writes secret romance novels. I’m trying to see how I fit with three tattoo artists.”
I brush a strand of hair from her face. “You fit. We wouldn’t want you if you didn’t.”
We lapse into quiet again, neither of us quite sure what else to say. The hush isn’t awkward, though. It’s more that we’re both processing. Eventually, she shifts, eyeing the swirling black lines on my forearm. “Hugo,” she says softly, “your tattoos…they tell a story, right? A piece of your journey?”
I tilt my head, glancing at the intricate ink wrapped around my muscles. “Oui,” I murmur, letting the French slip. “Skin can carry stories the same way paper does. Skin or paper, ink tells the tale.” I peel my T-shirt over my shoulders. Her gaze roams the swirling lines and geometric shapes that wrap my biceps, the stylized raven perched near my collarbone, the scattered symbols across my chest.
“Go on,” I say softly. “Read me.”
She draws close, eyes flicking across the geometric whorls. Her fingertips brush my forearm first, tracing the bold lines. My breath hitches. Even this small contact sends a pulse of heat up my spine. I can’t deny I love the feel of her gentle exploration.
She murmurs, “This one,” pointing at a swirling pattern that merges triangles and circles. “It seems…controlled. Like it’s part of a bigger design.”
I nod. “It is. That’s about order, strategy. A reminder I gave myself to think three steps ahead.”
She hums, letting her fingers drift up to the raven on my shoulder, each feather rendered in black, edges sharpened to exude watchfulness. It is designed to appear as origami—all edges and lines. “This raven feels protective,” she says, voice hushed. “Like it’s guarding something important.”
“Oui. It symbolizes watching over those I care about,” I confirm. “It’s…personal.”
She focuses on the design and murmurs, “Crows stand guard. They can be tricky and clever. But they remember the people who hurt them too. And they’re not afraid to do something about it…”
She speaks of me. But I wonder if she knows it.
Her fingertips slide toward the pair of rings in my nipples. “And these? What do they mean?”
“Secrets,” I say, half laughing. “You’ll have to earn those stories in time.”
She smirks, face flushing slightly. “I plan to.”
The moment lingers, more intimate than anything else we’ve done. It’s deeper than mere lust. She’s reading me, discovering the hidden layers in my ink. My chest tightens with an unexpected wave of vulnerability. I never let people see me this closely—not physically, but emotionally. She senses it, letting her palm rest gently over a patch of swirling designs near my heart. My breath stutters.
“You’re good at this,” I murmur, letting my forehead rest against hers for a moment. “Finding meaning in the lines. Not everyone sees the deeper story.”
“I want to know all your stories, Hugo.”
Heat floods me, along with affection, desire, and the worry that I might reveal too much. “You already see more than most.”
Then I lean in, capturing her lips in a gentle, deliberate kiss. She melts against me, arms sliding around my neck. My mind goes blissfully quiet except for the pounding of my heart. Nothing but Marie does that for me. Not the drugs I tried, the sex I’ve had, or the violence I poured into the world once upon a time.
Just Marie.
The stillness envelops us as we deepen the kiss. The night is not over, not while we still have each other’s warmth. My hand cups her cheek, guiding the angle, savoring the taste of her mouth. She responds with a low moan, fingers tightening in my hair.
For a while, we stay like that, exploring each other’s mouths in a calm, almost reverent way. No frenzied passion, just slow, deliberate closeness. My chest aches as she unravels me with every brush of her lips. Every kiss, a prayer or a study in peace.
But the peace is a lie. She is not telling me the whole truth of what is on her mind, and I will not force it from her. A woman is allowed to have secrets, just as a man has stories he may not share right now. Her secrets are merely one more thing for me to discover about her. And I intend to.