Chapter 35
Chapter
Thirty-Five
LAUREN
T he morning light seeps through the cottage’s crooked blinds, a pale, accusing glow that stabs at my eyelids. I’m sprawled naked across the bed, my body a map of aches—inner thighs bruised, hips tender, every muscle heavy with the goings on from last night.
Hugh’s hands are still on me, in memory—gripping, searing, unraveling me until I was nothing but heat and surrender. His mouth, hungry against my neck, my breasts, the way he thrust into me, deep and relentless, shattering me into fragments.
I can’t move, don’t want to. The exhaustion pinning me to the mattress.
Suddenly Meredith’s voice in my head—he uses women like tissues, tosses them when he’s done.
It was better than any dream, raw and overwhelming, his gray eyes burning into mine like I was everything, but now I’m terrified it was a lie, a game, and I’m drowning in the wreckage of my own weakness. My skin is marked by him.
Are they the first faint bruises of shame?
A knock splits the silence, hard and jarring, rattling the door frame like a gunshot.
My heart lurches, a wild thud against my ribs, and I freeze, my breath caught in my throat.
It comes again, louder, paired with muffled voices—male, rough.
Then the metallic clank of something heavy outside.
Alarm surges, icy and piercing, yanking me from my hazy thoughts.
Who’s here?
Then more clanging noises and a different male voice.
Shit. What the hell is going on outside?
I’m naked and sticky, and the thought of facing anyone at all twists my gut into knots. I sit bolt upright, wincing as my thighs protest, each movement a sore reminder of Hugh’s victory. Oh God, the way I arched into him. Sluttish doesn’t begin to describe my behavior.
My hands rush to grab a t-shirt and a pair of baggy shorts from the top drawer of my dresser. The fabric feels rough against my tender skin. I shove my tangled hair back, strands clinging to my sweaty neck, and stumble to the door.
My pulse sounds loud, erratic in my ears.
The voices are clearer now—all male, gruff, impatient, mixed with the scrape of boots and the clatter of tools.
I crack the door, just an inch, squinting into the morning’s harsh light, and my breath catches.
A crew of men, six or seven, in work boots and hi-vis vests, converse surrounded by piles of lumber, and bags of cement.
In the background, a generator is humming like a resting beast. One of them, stocky with a graying beard, steps forward, his clipboard clutched tight, his eyes scanning me curiously.
“Miss Hutton,” he notes. “We’re here to do some work on the cottage. We’ve been told to start today.”
What? My mouth opens, but nothing comes out. Work? Start today? My brain’s still too sluggish to process this —this invasion of men and materials. It feels like a nightmare I didn’t ask for. “I… what?” I manage, my voice cracking like dry wood.
He frowns, glancing at his clipboard, then back at me, his patience thinning.
“Renovations,” he says, slower, like I’m a recalcitrant, fretful child. “Full overhaul. The crew’s here to get it done quick. You weren’t told?”
I shake my head, confusion swirling with a creeping dread.
Hugh. This is him—his money, his control, his way of bending the world to his will.
My stomach lurches, a mix of gratitude and fury, because I need the help, God knows I do, but not like this, especially the way it has just been sprung on me.
“Wait,” I say, my voice sharper, trembling. “Just… give me a second.” I shut the door, not caring if it’s rude, and lean against it. My phone. I need my phone. Uh, probably still in the purse I used last night. I find my purse lying on the floor by the door. What a mess I was last night.
I dig my phone out and dial Hugh’s number, the screen blurring as my eyes burn.
It rings, but after five rings it goes directly to voicemail.
His voice—smooth, clipped, then that fucking delicious accent tells me to leave a message.
I try again, then a third time, each unanswered call stoking the panic in my chest. The men are out there, waiting, probably muttering about the crazy American broad wasting their time.
“Fuck you, Hugh, for being so high-minded,” I mutter, tossing the phone on the sofa.
I can’t keep them waiting forever. I find my sneakers and shove my feet into them, my movements frantic. My hair is a wild mess, of course, but what the hell. I open the door again, and the bearded man is still there, his crew looking amused.
“Come in,” I say, my voice flat, and step aside.
They hesitate, then file in, boots tracking dirt across the warped floorboards, their disbelieving eyes scanning the chaos —piles of junk, half-torn drywall, basically the skeleton of my dreams.
I don’t look at them. I don’t want their pity or judgment. “Do… whatever you need to,” I mutter, and slip out.
The air outside is crisp, biting, the kind of spring morning that smells of wet grass and possibility, but I’m too wired to feel it. My sneakers crunch gravel as I march toward the manor, its stone walls looming, sleek and perfect, a mocking contrast to my crumbling wreck.
My thighs ache with every step, each twinge a reminder of Hugh’s fingers digging into my flesh, his lips searing my skin, and the way he stretched me, until I was nothing but hot need.
I shove the errant thoughts down hard, but they remain, pulsing, making my cheeks burn as I climb the manor’s steps.
I ring the doorbell, and soon enough, the butler appears.
His smile is polite but guarded, like he knows I’m a storm waiting to break. “Miss Hutton,” he says formally.
“Is he in? Can you please let him know that I need to talk to him urgently?”
His expression remains neutral. “Perhaps you would like to wait in the drawing room while I let his lordship know of your visit,” he says.
“Thank you.”
He leads me through the manor’s grand halls. No matter in what state I arrive, the grandeur of Montrose’s interiors always takes my breath away. As soon as Mr. Knox leaves, I look around me with wide-eyed wonder. Imagine growing up here, living here. What an amazing childhood Hugh must have had.
I don’t have long to wait. Mr. Knox is back, and he leads me to where I have already been before.
The room that looks like a Victorian conservatory is a lovely pocket of summer in April’s chill.
Hugh is sprawled in a wicker chair, a breakfast spread before him—croissants, jam, a steaming pot of coffee.
He’s bare-chested, pajama bottoms slung low on his hips, bare feet propped on an ottoman, and the sight hits me like a fist. He’s gorgeous, infuriatingly so, his dark hair tousled, skin golden in the morning light, a lazy god in his kingdom.
We were both out last night, both drunk on wine and each other, but he looks untouched and totally in control, while I’m a mess, my body aching, my mind splintered by what we did, what I let happen.
He stands at my arrival, a smile curving his lips slowly like he’s been waiting for me.
“Lauren,” he murmurs, his voice warm.
It’s too much—too intimate, too knowing.
“There are workers at my house,” I say, my voice low, trembling with the effort to stay calm.
“Equipment, materials, a whole crew. I’m confused as hell, Hugh.
I tried calling, but you didn’t pick up.
” I force myself to meet his gaze, to ignore the heat creeping up my neck.
He leans forward, elbows on the table, his expression softening, almost apologetic. “I’m sorry about that,” he says. “I didn’t hear it ring. Knox has my phone charging somewhere.”
“Is there anything else, M’Lord?” the butler asks.
“That’ll be all. Thank you, Knox.”
The butler slips out noiselessly, leaving us alone.
“Come sit,” he says, gesturing to a chair, his voice gentle but firm, like he’s coaxing a skittish horse after it’s been startled by a sudden loud noise. “I’ll explain while you have breakfast with me.”
The quiet that follows is broken only by the faint clink of his coffee cup as he sets it down. I don’t move; my feet feel rooted. I’m more afraid than I’ve ever been in his presence because I realize now I handed him too much last night.
“Hugh,” I say, my voice tight with tension, “What’s going on? Why are those men at my cottage? And I don’t want to sit or have breakfast, just tell me.”
He sighs and leans back, making him look even more untouchable.
“I saw the state of your place last night,” he says, his tone measured.
“It’s a lot worse than I thought—more than you can handle alone, and it’ll take forever for you to do it.
So I made some calls and got a crew together to help, to speed the job up.
They’ll tackle it all at once—plumbing, walls, roof, the lot.
And you’ll have a proper home, Lauren, sooner than you think. ”
The words flow around like a wonderfully warm and soft blanket. I want to wrap it around me, but I’m from Chicago. People don’t do this kind of thing. The inner-city girl in me finds it impossible to take his words at face value.
The tools, the men, the sheer scale—it’s a lifeline, a miracle for a cottage drowning in chaos.
Yes, I can see it even now: clean floors, sturdy walls, a garden blooming where weeds now choke.
But it’s his lifeline, his money, his control, and I’m already in deep, my body and heart already hopelessly tangled with him.
“That’s… a lot,” I say slowly, my voice small, my arms crossing tight over my chest. “It’ll help, I know it will, but I can’t shake this feeling, Hugh. Like you’re being high-handed again, taking control of my life, and manipulating me.”
His jaw tightens, just a flicker, but his eyes stay steady, locked on mine. Instantly, I feel it—that pull, the same one that drew me to him last night, that made me kiss him back, let him carry me to the edge.
“Lauren,” he says, his voice low and patient, “I’m sorry if you think I’m being high-handed or manipulating you. I’m just someone who wants to get things done as soon as possible and as efficiently as possible.”
I stare at him suspiciously. “Anyway, why would you help me rebuild my cottage? Don’t you want to raze it to the ground?”
“Yes, I did want your land. I won’t deny it or lie about that.
But since then, I’ve got to know you, and I get why you want to stay, why it matters.
So I’m not pushing for it anymore. And last night…
” He pauses, his gaze softening, and the memory of his hands, his lips, comes flooding back, hot and vivid.
“Last night was something else. It made me feel… Christ, I don’t even know how to say it.
It made me want to make things easier for you, to give you a home you can breathe in, not a wreck you’re killing yourself to fix. ”
I swallow, my throat tight, his words stirring something fragile—hope, maybe, or something more dangerous. “You’re saying this isn’t about control?” I ask.
He stands and moves closer.
I tense, my pulse spiking. His bare chest is too near, too delectable.
“I’m not asking you to trust me blindly,” he persuades.
“You can keep your guard up, Lauren, if that’s what you want, and you’ll be the only person who decides everything that happens to your cottage, but please, just let them handle the construction for you.
They’ll make it fast, and they’ll do it well, so there’ll be no errors like the plumbing issue.
Of course, in the meantime, it’ll be too noisy with people working in different parts, so you’ll need somewhere temporary to stay.
I want to offer you a room in the west wing of the manor.
We’ve got plenty of rooms, and almost all of them are—unused.
You’d be comfortable, and it’d make things easier while they work.
That way you will be able to direct and inspect the work they’re doing at any time. ”
My mouth moves. “What’s in it for you?”
He shrugs. “Call it aesthetics. Having to look at a dilapidated wreck sitting at the bottom of my garden is not something I enjoy doing. It has always been my biggest gripe with your grandmother, but she refused to let me update it for her.
I blink, the offer hanging like a ripe fruit, tempting. Oh, so tempting. My cottage, done to high spec, and all for free, a room in his manor in the meantime. The inner-city girl in me cackles with derisive laughter.
“So … you’re doing all this… for aesthetics?” I ask sarcastically.
“Yes,” he grins, a flash of teeth, playful but honest.
It disarms me and tugs at me, loosening the knot in my chest.
“Absolutely, I’m doing it for aesthetics. Who doesn’t care about aesthetics?” he asks, shrugging his broad shoulders. “I’m being straight with you, Lauren. I want you to have the home you love, and yeah, it’ll look better next to my place. I hope you can see it.”
I stand there, suddenly feeling too warm, my heart thudding, his words a mix of promise and danger.
I want to believe him, to sink into the care he’s offering, but I’m scared—scared of falling, of being discarded, of losing myself in him.
My lips part and a shaky breath escapes.
I’m like a caught fish, the morning light spilling around us, his eyes holding mine like they see everything I’m trying to hide.