Chapter 26 War
Chapter twenty-six
War
The days blur in to weeks.
Not in a way that dulls.
In a way that deepens.
In a way that seeps into me.
She sleeps in my bed every night. Curled into my side.
My house doesn’t echo anymore.
It’s full. Of her.
She moves through it like she’s always been here. My shirts in the hamper, tangled with her dresses. Her hair ties on the bathroom counter. Her book face-down on my nightstand, spine cracked where she fell asleep mid-sentence. Her scent on my pillows.
We wake up together. I watch her stretch, soft and sleepy, lips parted, skin warm with the kind of heat I put there.
I feed her. Wine. Berries. Her favorite chocolate. My fingers.
Whatever I can press past her lips.
She works just down the hall, focused and sharp, bossing men twice her size with that quiet authority that makes me want to bend her over my desk and fuck her until she forgets how to speak.
I let her have her independence.
But she knows.
Every door she walks through is one I opened. Every task she handles is a weight I allow her to carry, because I trust her.
I trust her.
I keep her healthy.
Draped in couture.
Satisfied.
Wrecked.
There are days I fuck her before breakfast, make her wear my marks under her blouse. I whisper in her ear before meetings just to watch her squirm in her chair, breath shaky, thighs clenched.
There’s control in that.
In owning her mind. Her body. Her schedule.
But I know she still keeps the apartment.
Because I bought the building.
So I let her.
She’ll give it up on her own.
Eventually.
Because what we have…
It’s not temporary.
It’s not casual.
And it’s sure as fuck not optional.
I’m happy.
For once in my life, I’m truly happy.
For a man like me, that’s gold.
Worth more than money.
And in my world, money reigns supreme.
Not for me, not anymore. Money is now my tool to watch that smile burst onto her gorgeous face.
Olivia Baker has me.
Fuck.
My phone lights up.
One name. One man.
And a rage I haven’t felt in a long time roars to life.
I answer.
“Hello, Father.”
“Dinner this weekend. Your mother is expecting the three of you. Make it happen.”
The call ends.
Something old claws up my throat; I swallow metal.
My jaw’s tight. My knuckles tighter.
Dinner.
A summons.
Clipped words that actually mean: Just shift things around, War. Drop everything. Fly to Paris.
Make it happen.
Fuck him.
I drop the phone face-down on the desk and scrub a hand over my jaw. The anger pulses like a second heartbeat. My first instinct is to go alone. Handle it. Get in, get out, survive the emotional minefield of their table, their smiles, their fucking expectations.
But then I glance at the door.
She’s here.
In my life now.
In everything.
I can’t just leave her behind. Can’t pretend the thought of sleeping in a cold hotel bed without her doesn’t already grate.
But how do I bring her to Paris and leave her in some hotel room like luggage while I go sit through a dinner that’s guaranteed to crack open everything I’ve buried?
I don’t have an answer.
Not for Paris.
Not for them.
Not for how the fuck I’m supposed to sit through dinner with ghosts while the one person I actually care about is a continent away.
A single knock and the door opens.
I look up.
She steps inside, hips swaying, wearing that little smirk that tells me she’s in the mood to make me lose control.
“Mr. Beaumont,” she purrs. “You’ve been teasing me all day.”
She crosses the room slowly, unhurried.
“I’m here to collect.”
I don’t say anything. Don’t smile.
I can feel the tension radiating off me like static.
She stops in front of my desk, eyes narrowing slightly.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” I mutter.
Flat. False.
And she knows it.
She rounds the desk before I can stop her, sliding between me and the edge, planting herself right in front of me, her legs brushing my knees.
“You look pissed,” she says, voice soft but firm. “Talk to me.”
I shake my head once.
Sharp. Dismissive.
I don’t want her near this part of me.
The part that still flinches at my father’s voice, that still fights old shadows.
She leans in and kisses me.
Soft at first. A whisper of lips. A question.
Then deeper.
One hand slides into my hair, the other gripping my jaw—not gently.
She kisses me like she means to snap me out of it.
Like I’m not allowed to disappear inside myself.
Like I belong to her the same way she belongs to me.
Her mouth parts against mine, tongue slick and sure, tasting the anger still caught in my throat and swallowing it whole.
When I don’t kiss her back fast enough, she bites my bottom lip. Just enough to sting.
Then pulls back, barely.
Close enough I can still taste her.
She murmurs, low and firm, right against my mouth:
“Let me help.”
She drops to her knees.
And just like that, the noise in my head starts to quiet.
She doesn’t rush.
Doesn’t say anything.
She just looks up at me with those big, knowing eyes and undoes my belt like she’s unwrapping peace.
Like she knows exactly what I need.
Exactly how to take me apart and put me back together.
I lean back in the chair, legs spread wide. Watching. Waiting.
She frees my cock from my pants and wraps her hand around the base, slow, confident.
I’m already hard.
I’ve been hard since the second she walked in.
Pissed or not, this woman is everything that turns me on.
“Fuck,” I mutter. My hand fists in her hair. Not a tug. An anchor. “You look so fucking pretty like this.”
She smiles. Then lowers her mouth.
The second her lips close around me, I groan.
Head falling back.
Eyes shutting.
Warm. Wet. Heaven.
Her lips are tight around me, tongue teasing just under the head.
She takes her time.
Works me slow. Controlled. Her hand stroking what her mouth can’t take, spit slicking me up like she wants it messy.
Like she wants me undone.
I look down at her.
Her lips stretch around me, cheeks hollowing, eyes locked on mine like this is worship.
Like she’s showing me who I belong to.
“Good girl,” I grit, tightening my hold in her hair. “Just like that.”
She moans around me—soft and sinful—and the vibration punches straight through me.
My jaw locks. My thighs tense.
But she doesn’t stop.
Doesn’t flinch when I buck my hips.
She just takes it.
Deeper.
Her eyes water. Mascara smudges.
And I lose it.
I fuck her mouth.
Slow, then faster. Controlled thrusts that have her gagging softly, spit dripping down her chin.
She lets me.
Lets me use her.
Because she knows.
Knows this isn’t just about pleasure.
It’s release. Control. Peace.
And she gives it to me like it’s hers to offer.
“Look at you,” I breathe. “So perfect. So fucking perfect for me.”
Her hand cups my balls. Rolls them just enough to make me groan again, my head spinning.
She moans as I fuck deeper, more ragged now, my body tight, my grip savage.
I’m on the edge, choking just at the turning point.
She pulls back just enough to suck hard at the head, her tongue swirling, hand stroking, mouth wrecking me like a fucking queen.
“Olivia! Fuck! I’m gonna come—”
She moans again, eyes glassy.
Inviting.
Demanding.
And I give it to her.
My orgasm slams through me like a wave breaking open.
I groan, deep and hoarse, spilling into her mouth as she swallows every drop.
She doesn’t stop until I’m empty. Until my breath is uneven and my legs are trembling.
Only then does she pull off, licking her lips.
Smiling like sin.
My chest rises like I’ve come back from war. Like she exorcised something with her mouth.
I stare down at her, panting. Stunned.
Cleared out. Grounded.
She rests her hands on my thighs, chin tilted up. “Better?”
I run my thumb along her jaw, wiping the last trace of me from her lips before pressing it between them again, because if she’s going to take me, she’ll take all of it.
“Come to Paris with me this weekend,” I say breathless, still looking down at her, on her knees, wrecked and radiant, mine in every fucking way.
She grins. “I was that good?”
I grab her wrist and pull her into my lap.
My mouth finds hers.
“You’re perfect my sweet girl,” I whisper against her lips. “But it’s for dinner…with my parents.”
***
I would’ve hired someone to pack.
Had them lay out wrinkle-free slacks and collared shirts I’ll never wear. Steam a suit. Fold ties I won’t use.
Hell, I would’ve flown a stylist in just to make sure Olivia had everything she needed for Paris.
But no.
She insisted we do it ourselves.
So here I am, tossing shirts into an open suitcase like a college kid late for his flight, while she trails behind me, huffing under her breath as she refolds everything I just crumpled.
“You know,” I say, watching her smooth out a black button-down, “we don’t even have to pack.”
She looks up, arching one brow. Skeptical. So I continue.
“I’ll have everything you need there. If not, I’ll buy it.”
She rolls her eyes. Not in the annoyed way.
In the Olivia way.
The way that makes me want to pin her to the bed and kiss every sarcastic comment off her lips.
“We can be normal even if you have money, War.”
Fuck, I love that. Love her saying my name like it belongs to her now. Like she branded it.
The way she says normal. The word doesn’t exist in my world, but she says it like maybe it could.
I sit on the edge of the bed, watching her fold one of my sweaters, one she stole three nights ago and slept in.
“You won’t like them,” I say quietly.
She pauses, eyes flicking to mine. “Your parents?”
I nod once. “My mother will act sweet. Smile. Ask questions. But every word’s a knife wrapped in velvet. Every sentence, an underlying critique.”
Olivia folds slower now.
“And my father…” My jaw tightens. “He’ll try to gut me. Gut me and my brothers without ever raising his voice. He doesn’t need to.”
Her face softens. “I can handle it.”
I believe her.
She’s tougher than she looks.
“If you get uncomfortable,” she adds gently, “we can leave. Or I’ll stay at the hotel and explore Paris on my own. I don’t mind, War.”
That fucking bothers me.
The thought of her wandering Paris alone while I sit at that table in their home, while they try to break me, burns through me hotter than the rage in my chest.
“No.”
My voice comes out sharper than I meant, and she looks up in surprise.
I stand, crossing to her in two strides. My hands slide around her waist, pulling her close until she’s right against my chest.
“You stay with me,” I say, firm. “You don’t get left behind. Not by me. Not ever.”
She stares at me, wide-eyed. Her fingers curl into the hem of my shirt.
“They may as well get used to you being around,” I add.
Her brows furrow. “Used to me being around?”
I nod.
“Yeah, Olivia. You’re not mine for a season. You’re mine forever.”
Silence stretches between us. Thick. Heavy.
A word I never said to anyone before yet feels completely normal to say to her.
Forever.
No take-backs. No apologies.
I mean every word.
She blinks once. Then again. Her lips part, but no sound comes out.
And fuck—
There it is. That look. The one I want to wake up to for the rest of my life. A mix of awe and hesitation, like she’s terrified to believe in something good, but wants to anyway.
Wants me.
“I have to pack the sweater,” she finally says softly, like she needs to say something, anything.
I laugh under my breath and kiss her. Gentle. Deep.
I pull back slightly, brushing my nose against hers.
“You bring whatever you want, my sweet girl. Just don’t forget that you’re already mine.”
Her phone buzzes on the nightstand. The sound is sharp in the quiet, cutting through the warmth between us.
Olivia glances at the screen. Too quick. Too careful.
Her face shifts, barely, but I catch it.
She presses a kiss to my jaw and slips out of my arms. “I’ll take this in the kitchen.”
My heart drops.
Kitchen.
Not here.
Not in front of me.
Something cold claws its way through my ribs as I watch her disappear around the corner. My jaw tightens. I try to tell myself it’s nothing
But I’m not the kind of man who ignores instinct.
And right now, my instinct is screaming.
I stay frozen for a beat.
Then I’m moving. Following.
My heart’s pounding harder than it should, heavier than it ever had, like every instinct in me already knows whatever waits in that call isn’t something I’ll like.
Not one fucking bit.