Chapter 10
CHANTEL
After an extra-long shower, I change into some leggings, a sports bra, and a wrap top and pad down the hall with my yoga mat.
Part of me is hoping that the men will be gone by now and I can just pretend none of this ever happened. But when I get to the living room, I find Cristian is still here, and he’s sitting on a new sofa.
“What the hell is that?” I sputter.
He continues tapping out a message on his phone without bothering to glance up at me. “What does it look like?”
“I don’t need you to buy me a sofa. I already had one.”
“That wasn’t a sofa. It was dollhouse furniture.”
It occurs to me as I study the much larger sofa that he slept on mine last night, and clearly he didn’t like it.
A seed of paranoia sprouts inside me as I consider that he bought this for a reason.
“You’re not staying here,” I blurt.
He lifts his gaze to mine, appraising me with an annoyingly calm expression. “Remember what I said about consequences?”
“You can’t be serious.”
“If there’s one thing you should know about me, ladroncina, it’s that I never say anything I don’t mean.”
I stare at him, at a loss for words.
Realistically, I know I only have myself to blame for this. I practically threw down the gauntlet in the bathroom when I challenged him. But the thought of having him in my personal space with this powder keg of tension between us is a recipe for disaster.
A hint of satisfaction flickers in the depths of his dark eyes as he waits for my reaction.
For a man who takes pleasure in fighting with me, engaging him would only give him what he wants.
It would also be a waste of breath, because I know I won’t change his mind.
The best I can do is hope that he gets bored and realizes this so-called stalker isn’t worth his time.
“I need to do my yoga,” I say primly.
He returns his attention to his phone without offering me a response.
I study him for a beat, irritated by his indifference. But then I realize that’s probably the point. So I pretend he isn’t here and roll out my mat.
Twenty minutes into my routine, I’m proud of myself for not looking at him once. But then he gets up and walks past me, meeting someone at the door. When he returns, he has an overnight bag. His eyes briefly meet mine before they sweep the length of my body, giving absolutely nothing away.
And so the day continues in awkward silence. I spend some time reading and doomscrolling while he takes calls and works from his laptop.
Marco texts me a few times from different numbers, begging me to meet so we can talk. He offers up a variety of tired excuses for his behavior, but I don’t bother to read them before I block those contacts too.
When it gets closer to dinner time, Cristian examines the bare contents of my fridge with a drawn brow. I can only imagine what he’d think of me if he realized I don’t know how to cook. I exist on bagged salads, fruit, protein shakes, and sandwiches.
The Vitales always do a big Sunday meal, and he’s missing out because he’s here with me. But as it turns out, Cristian is resourceful. In less than an hour, someone else delivers an entire spread of Italian food.
He dishes up two plates and hands one to me, shooting me a look that makes my thighs clench. His voice dips into a low, rough timbre as he tells me to eat, but what I hear is, “be a good girl and do what I tell you.”
He has that dominant masculine energy I’ve always craved in a man, and it makes me want to follow his commands. It also makes me want to challenge him, just to see what happens when I don’t.
Warmth blooms under my skin as I peer up at him, and I swear he can tell what I’m thinking. His smoldering gaze grabs me by the throat and holds me hostage as his eyes rake over me in a rough caress.
A charge hums through the air, and my heart thumps erratically as the moment stretches on. I sink my teeth into my lip to prevent myself from saying something legendarily stupid, but there’s nothing I can do about the rapid pulse in my neck.
He’s definitely noticed that, and my nipples that won’t seem to calm the hell down beneath my shirt.
“Cold?” he murmurs, a thread of amusement slipping through his voice.
“Yep.” I swallow.
I’m as far from cold as it gets and we both know it, but I refuse to admit that I have all manner of filthy thoughts running through my mind right now.
Fortunately, one of us appears to have our sanity intact. Cristian tosses me a blanket I don’t need, then he puts some much-needed distance between us as we eat in silence.
The rest of the night creeps by slowly, and I’m relieved when I finally go to bed.
But as I lie there, all I can think about is whether or not he’d hear my vibrator if I used it.
Then I realize how insane it is that he has me this worked up.
I absolutely cannot allow myself to indulge these fantasies, particularly when I have to face him every day for who knows how long.
I don’t need a replay of what happened last night.
As that memory rattles around my brain, I pull up my message thread with Bran.
The last conversation we had was when he sent me that picture from the bar at Black Velvet.
My fingers hover over the keyboard as I try to think of something to say, but I come up empty.
So I settle on the picture game instead.
I snap a photo of the wooden music box on my dresser. The varnish is worn at the edges from years of use, but inside, the tiny ballerina still dances when the melody plays.
Bran receives my message, and I stare at the ceiling until he replies.
Bran: Family heirloom?
It’s a simple question, but the answer hollows out my chest cavity. Realistically, I shouldn’t be sharing this with anyone, but as I type out my response, it feels like a relief to finally say it.
Morrigan: It was a gift from my mother.
It’s all I have left of her, and that’s only because my father didn’t realize she’d given it to me. When she died, every trace of her disappeared from the house.
At night, I’d sit in my room, watching that tiny ballerina spin round and round as I waited for her to return. I thought if I wanted it badly enough, I could wish her back into existence. When that didn’t work, I convinced myself that what I saw the night she died was a dream.
She was still out there somewhere, and even though we didn’t escape together like she planned, she’d come for me someday.
Except that fantasy died a painful death when I discovered the false compartment on the bottom of the music box. All the money she’d saved for our new life was still there, and I knew then she was never coming home.
Bran: Tell me about her.
Morrigan: There isn’t much to tell. I only knew her for seven years. This box is the last thing she gave me, but sometimes, I wonder why I even keep it. I’m not sure if it’s a haunting reminder of her, or the life I’ll never have.
Bran: And what life is that, dea?
I hesitate for a moment as I consider how honest I want to be. He has a way of making me admit things I’d usually never say out loud. It’s why he’s so dangerous. But in this case, the truth isn’t a secret I need to guard with my life, because in the end, it doesn’t really matter.
Morrigan: I used to imagine giving this music box to my daughter someday, when I had a family of my own. But I think I just need to accept that my life didn’t turn out the way I planned, and some things aren’t in the cards for me.
Bran: It sounds like you know what you want. You just have to stop avoiding it.
His insight cuts a little too deep, because he knows how much I let fear control me. It’s the same reason I ran away from him, and why I keep telling myself I don’t have enough stability in my life for the things I want. But maybe I could…if I chose it.
Morrigan: Well, step one is complete. I finally broke up with Lord Dickhead. I guess I can officially call him that now.
Bran: Sad about it?
Morrigan: No. Honestly, I’m relieved.
Bran: Then why were you with him to begin with?
Morrigan: You know why.
There’s a pause after he reads the message, and it stirs a familiar sense of guilt in me.
Bran never told me how he felt when I ended our agreement abruptly, and I never asked.
Our original terms stated plainly that we’d leave emotions out of it, but something shifted in our dynamic, and we both knew it.
When it was over, I was surprised he even wanted to stay in contact with me at all, given how I’d left.
We’ve kept things surface-level since then, and up until tonight, our conversations have made a wide detour around anything too serious. But he brings back some of the levity with his next message.
Bran: So how many theoretical children are we having?
I fight back a smile as I shake my head.
Morrigan: You are not helping my sexual frustrations. Don’t tempt me when I’m ovulating.
Bran: I’m willing to put in the work, but you might regret asking me.
Morrigan: Why?
Bran: Because once I put a baby in you, I wouldn’t want to stop.
A slow-burning flame rolls down my spine as I stare at those words, liking the idea far more than I care to admit. He’s obviously joking, but for a moment, I entertain the thought of him doing exactly that.
Then reality sinks in, and I realize how crazy that sounds.
Morrigan: Really not helping. Now I can’t figure out if I have a breeding kink, or you do.
Bran: One way to find out.
I close my eyes for a moment, trying to recall the way he touched me, or the sound of his low, rough commands as they brushed against my ear.
But it’s been so long since I’ve seen him, my memories can’t be trusted.
My mind has created some kind of Frankenfantasy between him and the man currently taking up too many of my thoughts with his invasion into my life.
It’s confusing to say the least.
Bran: Are you looking for direction, dea?
I let out a shuddering breath, knowing full well this is a slippery slope. But if I’m being real, this is exactly what I wanted when I texted him tonight.