Chapter 29
?
Two hundred thousand words is an awful lot of proof.
Crisis
“I finished my book today,” I murmur, while Viktor is pulling his fingers through my hair and looking for a new bedtime story. We finished the self-help book. Very informative. Very funny. I think the author and I could be friends. I hope she crunched her enemy’s heart real good. “I know I was supposed to finish my book days ago, but…things distracted me.”
Things pauses running his fingers through my hair and looks down at me.
It has been three days since I asked for time to think Viktor’s proposal through and thirteen days since the start of his two-week-long writer’s retreat. Tomorrow is the last day filled with success stories, plans on how to take the motivation from these past two weeks forward, and also horseback riding.
Because why not, I suppose.
The success story time will take place in small groups, so everyone can really feel seen and heard when they share their great accomplishments. My great accomplishment is that I wrote a whole book, but it’s hard to see that as any sort of accomplishment when it’s not going to do anything but sit on my computer and rot. It’s hard to even want to share that information when I did it like I do most things—out of spite.
After all these years…I think I’m tired of the spite.
I snuggle my pillow. “It’s self-edit time now, isn’t it?”
“That depends on what you want to do with it. Self-editing sucks. If you’re just having fun, there’s no point.”
I like that Viktor’s logical.
I like a lot about Viktor.
Sitting up, I look at him. At his strong profile. His trim stubble. Those amber eyes. They’re still brown, but they’re lighter than mine. Maybe that light in them is why he sees me in far brighter shades than I do.
I manage a stiff breath. “I don’t know what to do. I don’t feel like I’m allowed to regain my dream of being an author now. Not after what I threw it away over.”
Locking his phone, he sets it on my nightstand. “Did you really throw it away at all, sweet pea? The progress between what I saw ten years ago and what you cranked out in a matter of weeks doesn’t happen unless you keep writing. You’ve been writing all this time, haven’t you?” When I avert my eyes, he smiles. “Yeah. That’s what I thought. Some people sit on a story for ten years and do nothing with it because of insecurities or doubts.” His smile fades. “I ripped your whole world out from under you. But you kept writing even when it felt pointless, because you’ve got something I don’t. You really love to write, Crisis. I’m just sticking around because it’s not that painful and I feel duty-bound.” Shaking his head, he exhales a laugh. “The only stuff I’ve ever enjoyed writing? That’s not stuff I share.”
“There’s something you love to write?”
He nods. “One thing, yes.”
I think I’m buzzing with curiosity. And I think he notices.
Red touches his cheeks as he rustles his hair. “Um. No. You would very much not be interested in reading it. It’s less of a story and more a collection of thoughts, ideas, and dreams. A fantasy journal.”
The extent of my desperation to read this man’s fantasy journal is something he shall simply never comprehend. I say, “How erotic is it? You can tell me. I’m a big girl. It’s harem fiction, isn’t it? Alien harem fiction. How many octopi qualities do any of the main characters have? How many sets of quadruplets are we talking? Did you make it punny?” I gasp. “Viktor, no. No, you didn’t. Did you? It’s secret baby with octopulets , isn’t it? You made hentai and gave the poor octoperson male lead a baby for every arm. Don’t worry. I’m not judging. At some point, all writers go a little crazy. For example.” I lay a prim hand against my camisole. “ I once wrote a love triangle .”
He snorts, crumpling in on himself. “Well, now I just feel like it’d disappoint you, seeing as you are clearly a wild one.”
“I’m willing to be disappointed.”
He glances at my collection of his books, just behind me, on my shelves. “Sometimes I forget you’re actually quite the rabid fan.” He sighs. “If it crashes my phone, it wasn’t meant to be, okay?”
“Why would it crash your phone?” It’s not a Canva murderboard.
“Because,” he murmurs, bringing up his Google Docs app, “It’s over two hundred thousand words long.”
I gasp. Big boy. Thick boy. Weapon .
Forgetting myself and the affections this man claims to have for me, I remove the barrier of my pillow in order to squish against his side and peer at his phone screen.
He mutters a swear. “It loaded. ”
What joy.
Grinning not at all evilly, I scan the first line.
Catastrophe was not like other girls.
I bust out laughing. “A not like other girls trope! Oh, this is gold.”
She was everything.
And it’s a romance.
I’m already obsessed.
Gimme gimme more.
Her deep brown eyes reflected worlds and galaxies, entire universes. They held magic, wonder, mischief, and many, many Canva Whiteboards.
I…am no longer smiling. Reaching, I confiscate Viktor’s phone. Then I scroll, until it chokes, because it’s still loading.
A swear word catches my attention. So I skim the following lines, which possess more swears. Swears all over the place. Scattered like dew. Her thighs. Her —ing thighs. The way she —ing moves. Her —. I can’t breathe when she bends down. It’s like she was —ing crafted with my exact cravings in mind. She’s —ing beautiful. So beautiful. So — beautiful.
Viktor makes an effort to regain his phone. I pull it away, stand, keep reading.
Her eyes destroy me. Whenever they sparkle, whenever they look up to meet mine. She’s so precious. So…so precious.
I scroll again, wait for something else to catch my eye.
Her arms wrap around me, her nails digging into my back, desperate to draw blood. Her full, perfect lips touch my ear, and she whispers, “I hate you.” But when I envelop her in my embrace, she does not pull away.
Viktor’s on his feet now, marching for me, voice thin enough to snap. “Crisis. Crisis, give me back my phone. Right now.”
I scroll again, dodging him. I slap my hand to my mouth at what I’ve found this time.
“ Crisis ,” he practically squeaks. “Crisis, not all of that is entirely stuff I’m comfortable with you seeing.”
It…is… vivid .
I sweep under his arm and march to the other side of my room, stepping on and over my bed in the process while pictures of scandal flash before my eyes. Not an octoperson in sight. And, yet, I am very much the opposite of disappointed. It’s more feelings than bodies , but the feeling? It’s desperation. Absolute, utter, crushing desperation to have…me?
I scroll, and scroll, and it lasts forever, doesn’t it? Just on and on with please, please, please be mine . When the end comes, it robs me of air.
“I love you.” My lips press hard to her silken hair as I hold her close, feel the heat of her thaw something aching inside me. “I love you so much, Crisis.”
Every muscle in me freezes.
And Viktor finally rips the phone from my hand.
Face blazing, he looks at me, formidable, large, agonized.
Voice raw, he says, “I can explain.”
“You can explain…what?”
His mouth opens, eyes searching, but no words force their way up his esophagus.
“The tense shifts? Can you explain those? You started in past. It fell into present.”
“Um.”
“And the inconsistencies? Your…female lead’s name…well. It started as some chick named Catastrophe . But I’m pretty sure I just read it as Crisis .”
He closes his eyes. “I…don’t think I know how to explain that…actu ally.”
“You wrote two hundred thousand words…about me ?”
“I didn’t know where to put them.” His head shakes, helpless. “I’ve never been in a relationship before. I’ve never experienced anything like what I’ve written. It was all…impulse…fever dream…wish. A way to get things out of my skull, so maybe I wouldn’t think about them so much when you were right in front of me. Most of it isn’t…illicit. I promise.”
“I think I’d have to read all of it to make sure, right?” A lovely thought possesses me, so I beam. “New bedtime story located!”
He looks like he’s about to die. “I…would really rather not.”
I pout.
“Crisis, please…”
Crisis, please what? I’m not the one with a two hundred thousand word fanfiction about my assistant stuck all willy-nilly in a Google Docs folder. Imagine the oops that could happen if he was tired one night while submitting a manuscript.
Desmond would be utterly scandalized. And, yet, he would edit it, and then we’d have a huge problem on our hands. Because, see, Viktor would want to die, and I…I would want the weapon .
And while he’s busy perishing, I’d be irresponsibly utilizing my access to his email accounts.
Forcing a breath into my tight lungs, I approach him. Rightfully, he hides his phone behind his back and angles his body to flee. Gripping the hem of his t-shirt, I stop him. “Will you promise not to let me hurt you?”
His shaking hand cups my face. “I don’t understand.”
“If, through mysterious means, I set part of the house on fire, you have to do something more than cuddle me while murmuring how it’s fine and you’ll just buy a new one.”
His pupils enlarge, dark blots gulping amber whole. “Why would I punish you for something you had no control over?”
I twist his shirt in my fist. “Because. It’ll make me feel better. I need you to react in the way you responded to the bee sting when stuff happens that inconveniences more than just me. It helps me feel less like a burden. Even if I complain about how you choose to let me make amends, it helps me feel a little more in control to know that I can atone. Please. Don’t let me abuse you. Help me outgrow that.”
Realization strikes him, and he frees a breathless, “I will. I promise.”
“Do you really love me two hundred thousand words deep?”
Raw, he rasps, “And counting, sweet pea. Forever, and ever, counting.”
“I don’t want to regret trusting you if I believe you really mean that.”
“Have I ever lied to you?”
Searching the black pools of his eyes, I consider that, no, he hasn’t. But more importantly, I don’t think people can on-command change the size of their pupils without some kind of assistance. The lighting in here hasn’t changed. Neither has the temperature. Yet, he’s shivering and touching me as though I’m glass.
My love language is words of affirmation, but people stole the love out of my words, and I couldn’t trust them anymore. I’ve long since grown to rely on more concrete things. Like actions. If every inch of Viktor were not being honest with me right now…I don’t think I’d have the strength to lift myself fragilely to his lips and kiss him .
His phone hits the floor before I understand what I’ve done—what I’ve unleashed. His arms are around me in an instant, raking my body into his. “Crisis.” He chokes on my name. “Does this mean—” He swears. My back hits my bedroom wall, and I gasp, wondering when he started walking us toward it. His hands fall, lower, lower.
I curse and shudder as he clasps my thighs. His fingers dig into the flesh beneath my pajama shorts as he braces my wing bones against the wall to lift my legs and lock my ankles around his waist. All the while, he lays waste to my mouth, kissing me like he’s starved.
I whimper when his hand slides up my back. His babbling overtakes all rational thought as heat erupts to consume me. “This,” he says, breathless, “I dream of this. You.” He nips my lip, moans, nuzzles. “The way you arch, when you stretch at your desk.” He pants, grips my hair to jerk me away from the ambrosia of his mouth. Heated, the dark pools of his eyes laced in honey amber glaze as they lock on mine. Coarse, he commands, “Stretch for me.”
My head teeters on a dazed edge, happy to oblige anything— anything —for him. For the promise of one more kiss, I would do anything . Shaky, I draw my hands off him, lock my fingers together, and stretch, arching my body into his chest as I loosen the muscles in my neck, letting my head fall back against my bedroom wall.
His grip slams my hands into the pale blue paint. His finger curls under my chin—then follows my swallow down the column of my throat, eliciting a shudder so potent I may never stop shivering. “Yeah,” he breathes, while I come utterly undone. “ That .”
Well… That I can do.
My arms go limp, trusting his hands to keep them up, trusting him to catch me as I fall.
“I dream of this.” He kisses the birthmark on my shoulder, repeating, “I…dream of this, of you. Let me love you forever, Crisis. Say yes . And become mine.”
Arms pinned, feet off the ground, I am helpless. I am floating. A pea puffer in a tank, at the mercy of the current, too lazy perhaps to fight it…or too trusting to care where it brings me.
I know Viktor Bachelor inside and out. I have counted how many breaths he takes in an hour. I have learned how to make them stick in his chest. I know Viktor Bachelor inside and out…but for the first time since we met, I am convinced he has also counted mine.
“Kiss me,” I whisper.
He touches his lips to the corner of my mouth. “Say you’ll marry me, and I’ll do more than kiss you.”
Vivid imagery bombards.
My heart skips beats. “Is that a threat?”
“A promise.”
“When?” I ask.
“Our wedding night.” He rests his mouth against my neck, nibbles. “I need to look up a guide first.”
I bite my lip to kill the laugh trying to escape. “Is that—” I swallow as my stomach spins. “—so? A guide, huh?”
“I can feel you shaking with suppressed laughter, Crisis. You, as always, are fooling no one.”
“Rude.” I tug on my hands, but he only tightens his grip and pins them harder against the drywall. To get him back, I say, “I’ve a splendid idea. The guide can be our bedtime story tonight.”
“Absolutely not.”
“But—”
“Crisis,” he warns, patiently, stubble chafing against my shoulder. “Please.”
The pleading sobers me. So I whisper, “You’re certain you want to marry me ? ”
“I know it’s hard for you to believe, sweet pea…but I—quite passionately—am in love with you.”
That is really, really hard for me to believe after I’ve spent years staring myself in the eye and saying I am unlovable so it wouldn’t hurt as much whenever strangers obtain the compulsion to remind me of that fact.
His fingers loosen and skate down my arm, raising goose bumps in their wake. “Let me love you,” he whispers as his palm clamps to my waist. “Let me give you a family. Let me give you everything.”
“I don’t deserve everything.” My muscles constrict when he curls a finger under my camisole to drag the pad against my bare skin. “And this is starting to feel like coercion.”
“Let me coerce you.”
“Glad you’re not being discreet about it at least.”
“Zakery has said, several times, that I’m about as discreet as a marching band and he is appalled you’ve never caught on.”
Zakery can stop going around and telling people that they’re as discreet as a marching band, I think. Unwittingly, my body sinks into Viktor’s. “I…am not one to assume people like me.”
He forgoes teasing my skin in favor of holding me. “I noticed.”
I wait. Just a moment. Just in case a meteor wants to smite me in the next few seconds. Then, I say, “You’re sure?”
“Completely.”
“I don’t annoy you?”
“You don’t annoy Kyran .”
That…is a point.
I wet my lips. “I’m not good, or kind.”
His hot breath fans over my skin. “I can’t wait to break down your beliefs and make them suit me.”
There I go, shivering again. Or still. I’m not sure.
I squeeze my eyes shut, fight to block out my doubts. “That doesn’t sound like a very healthy way to start a relationship.”
He chuckles. “We’re well past starting with an illusion of healthy , Crisis.”
He’s got me there.
“One three-letter word, sweet pea,” he whispers into my flesh. “Please.”
I try to dissolve into his skin. “Ask me the question again.”
“Will you be mine?”
His.
Being his sounds an awful lot like being loved. Which is scary. And overwhelming. And…everything I’ve never allowed myself to want. So I say, “Yes.”