20. Elena
20
ELENA
I hang the photograph of Atlas.
His eyes burn off the page, hungry and dark. Staring into mine.
When I turn around, he’s looking at me exactly the same way.
My heart is beating so hard.
I swore, I swore, I swore I wasn’t going to kiss him again.
The red light is still on. His eyes are black, his hair is black, and his skin is scarlet. He’s every fevered dream I’ve ever had of him, standing right here…
Dreams of Atlas keep me up at night more than my nightmares. Dreams of what could have been…
Why wasn’t he the one I met that day in the café instead of Lorne?
But fate sent Lorne to the Ambassador Hotel. And I was there to meet him. Wishing, praying for that very thing.
And if it’s not quite how I imagined it would be…well, I was stupid to believe in fairy-tale endings in the first place.
Real life is difficult and dark. I’ve always known that.
Sometimes you meet a decent guy, and then you meet the actual one . The one who makes your skin burn and your heart race and your spirit soar. The one who looks in your eyes and seems to understand you before you say a word, but he listens anyway. No, he doesn’t just listen…he hangs on your every word. And when he answers, it’s just the right thing to make you feel safe and at home.
But you’re already engaged to someone else.
And that someone else is super fucking pissed at you.
We’ll talk about this tomorrow. That’s what Lorne texted me last night after two of Atlas’s employees carried him up to bed.
I’m not looking forward to it.
I can’t kiss Atlas. No matter how badly I’m burning to do it. Lorne will see it all over my face. I’m supposed to be meeting him for dinner in less than an hour. He’s already going to wonder why I reek like chemicals. Blyat , I need to shower…
Though I’d much rather stay right where I am, I say, “I’ve got to go, Atlas.”
He just stands there watching me. Taking up half the room.
He removed his suit jacket earlier and hung it carefully over the back of the chair, leaving only his black dress shirt, the sleeves now rolled up. I can’t see through his shirt at all. But I can absolutely see the shape of his body, the thick muscle on his chest, back, and arms.
Atlas is strong like an animal. You can see it every time he moves. And it brings out something animal in me.
He’s only touched me in the gentlest ways. Somehow…that makes me rabid.
I want to feel what he’s holding back so carefully. It’s all I can seem to think about. All day long, and especially all night…
Atlas says, “Go, then.” But his face says the opposite. And he hasn’t moved an inch.
I know exactly what will happen if I take a step in his direction.
So I don’t even try to slip past him. Instead, I run straight toward him.
I leap into Atlas’s arms, wrap my legs around his waist, take his face in my hands, and kiss him. I kiss him long and deep with all my heart. Then I look into his eyes and say, “Thank you.”
Nobody has ever given me a gift as thoughtful as a whole entire darkroom.
Atlas sets me down slowly, his eyes locked on mine, his hands lingering and dragging across my skin.
“You have to know, Elena…I’d do anything for you.”
I’m getting ready to meet Lorne, but all I can think about is Atlas.
Lorne is fine, he’s great, even. Some other woman would probably be really happy with him—Olivia, for instance. But I don’t think that group includes me.
I shouldn’t have rushed into this, okay, that’s obvious. But how fucked am I, really?
I bite the edge of my thumbnail, considering.
Well, if I don’t marry Lorne, then I have to go home to Lviv. And then I won’t be with Atlas or anybody else because I’ll be locked in a prison cell for the rest of my days.
That’s…pretty fucked.
But if I want to stay here, I have to marry Lorne. And that might be worse.
Worse than prison?
I guess that depends. Like, for starters, it depends on how angry my fiancé is with me at this current moment. And what he intends to do about it tonight.
I rush through my preparations, twisting my hair up in a knot, slipping on some earrings. I want to see Ivy before dinner, to hear how her dentist appointment went. I know she was nervous.
When I arrive, she’s sitting by the window like usual, but she looks like she should be lying in bed. She’s wrapped up in her quilt, eyes glazed, face swollen.
“She had three cavities,” Mrs. Cross says with way too much satisfaction. “Probably because half her diet is maple syrup.”
“How are you doing, Ivy?” I ask, kneeling by her chair, ignoring Mrs. Cross.
She opens her eyes partway, struggling to focus. She raises a slow, wobbling hand to her cheek and winces.
“Have you given her any painkillers?” I demand of Mrs. Cross.
Lorne comes in from the adjoining room, looking mostly recovered. He’s freshly showered, wearing a nicely pressed shirt, hair combed back, no glasses today. But his eyes are still bloodshot, and his face is ever so slightly puffy from last night’s binge.
He’s clearly surprised to see me. “What are you doing down here? I was coming to get you.”
“I wanted to check on Ivy. She’s not looking well?—”
“Of course not; she had three fillings. She eats too much sugar.”
Lorne’s tone is already clipped and simmering, but I ignore that, too.
“I’m worried about her. I don’t think we should go for dinner. Can we order in to the room instead?”
“We’re going to dinner,” Lorne snaps. “Ivy will be fine. Mrs. Cross is here.”
Mrs. Cross gives me a furious nod. But I don’t give much of a fuck, because Ivy made a whimpering sound when her dad said that.
I stand and look Lorne right in the eye. “I want to stay with her.”
Lorne stares right back at me, an awful stillness falling over his face. His voice is stripped bare as steel. “My daughter is going to bed, and you’re coming with me to dinner.”
The emphasis on “ my” daughter is slight. But it’s definitely there.
Ivy is not my daughter. I have no right to dictate anything to Lorne or even Mrs. Cross. But damn, does it feel like I need to.
The little girl is sickly pale and absolutely miserable. She can barely sit up in the armchair. But I have no leverage, no power here.
“We at least need to give her some Tylenol,” I insist. “And a glass of water.”
Lorne taps his foot impatiently while I check Ivy’s forehead with my wrist, give her the Children’s Tylenol, and fetch her already-battered copy of Firestarter .
“In case you feel up to reading later,” I tell her.
I set the book where Ivy can easily reach it.
“Let’s go!” Lorne snaps.
His voice jolts Ivy, who grabs my wrist. She looks into my eyes, one of the longest, most direct stares she’s ever given me, somehow all the more clear and direct because of the slight delirium of her fever. It’s like it’s burned away the veil that sometimes separates Ivy and the rest of the world. Her eyes stare into mine, and she clings to my wrist with both hands.
Her mouth works, and she grimaces. “Ap,” she croaks.
“ Ap ?” I repeat. “What’s ap ?”
But Ivy slumps back, letting go of my wrist, her eyes glossing over.
“What’s ap ?” I repeat, half turning as if Lorne will help me. Ivy’s never tried to talk to me before. Not out loud.
“She’s just making noise,” Lorne says.
But that wasn’t just noise. She was trying to tell me something.
“What is it, sweetie?” I ask Ivy one more time, bending down, trying to look into her face. “What’s ap ?”
She won’t look at me. No matter how I reposition my face to catch her eye, her gaze slides relentlessly away, down my arm to my hand and the ring. She seems to be staring at the diamond, transfixed.
When I told Ivy I was marrying her dad, she didn’t seem very happy. She didn’t want to look at the ring. But now she can’t take her eyes off it.
“All right,” I murmur, touching her shoulder gently in the way she doesn’t mind. “You can tell me tomorrow.” As I stand, I say at a normal volume, “I’ll come see you in the morning. We’ll make your owl suit.”
Ivy has been counting the days until Halloween. Crossing them off in her notebook.
“Let’s go, ” Lorne says one final time from the doorway, quietly furious.