Chapter 10
Faye
There is a specific kind of silence that exists only in the aftermath of a natural disaster. It’s heavy, thick, and ringing with the echo of what was just destroyed.
I woke up inside that silence.
My first sensation was light. The brutal, high-altitude Aspen sun was streaming through sheer curtains, cutting across the room in blinding white stripes.
My second sensation was pain.
Not the sharp, freezing sting of the blizzard, or the dull ache of a hangover.
This was a deep, delicious, heavy soreness that lived in my thighs, my lower back, and the tender flesh between my legs.
It was the kind of soreness that told a story, a physical receipt of the transaction that had taken place in the dark.
I kept my eyes closed, afraid to open them. Afraid that if I opened them, the reality would come crashing down on me like an avalanche.
I slept with Graham Vane.
I slept with the landlord.
I slept with the Captain.
I slept with the Enemy.
The list of titles scrolled through my mind, each one a flashing red warning sign I had ignored.
I shifted slightly, the high-thread-count sheets sliding against my bare skin. I was naked. Completely, vulnerably naked. And I wasn't alone.
I felt the heat radiating from behind me.
A solid, heavy wall of warmth. Graham’s arm—his left arm, the good one—was draped over my waist, his hand resting possessively flat against my stomach.
His chest was pressed against my back. I could feel the slow, steady rhythm of his breathing against my shoulder blades. In. Out. In. Out.
He was asleep. The Governor, the control freak, the man who scheduled his bathroom breaks, was asleep at 9:00 AM on a Sunday.
I should leave.
The panic, sharp and familiar, flared in my chest. This was the part where I ran. This was the part where I grabbed my dress from the floor, did the walk of shame, and built a fortress of sarcasm to protect myself from the inevitable rejection.
He was hurt, my brain whispered. He was vulnerable. It was pity sex. Or adrenaline sex. Or 'thank you for icing my shoulder' sex.
Whatever it was, it couldn't be real. Because things like this—waking up wrapped in the arms of a man who looked like a Greek god and played hockey like a gladiator—didn't happen to Faye Allister. Faye Allister was the punchline. Faye Allister was the mess you cleaned up, not the girl you kept.
I carefully lifted his heavy arm off my waist. He grumbled something unintelligible, his breathing hitching, but he didn't wake.
I slid out from under the duvet. The cold air hit my skin, raising goosebumps.
I stood by the side of the bed, shivering, and looked down at him.
God, he was beautiful.
He was lying on his stomach, his face turned toward me, smashed into the pillow. His dark hair was a chaotic mess—my fault. The sheet was pooled at his waist, exposing the broad expanse of his back.
I saw the tape marks I had ripped off last night. I saw the faint bruising on his right shoulder.
But then I saw the other marks.
Long, red scratches running down his left shoulder blade.
My marks.
I had done that. I had clawed at him while he took me apart.
A flush of heat, hotter than the sun, rushed through my veins. The memory of his mouth, his hands, his low, growling voice commanding me to let go… it threatened to buckle my knees.
Move, Faye. Move.
I spotted my gold dress in a heap near the door. It looked sad and deflated, a relic of a different life. I couldn't put that back on.
I tiptoed to the dresser. I needed a shirt. Just something to cover myself so I could sneak back to my room and have a nervous breakdown in privacy.
I opened the top drawer. Boxers. Neat rows of black Calvin Kleins.
Second drawer. T-shirts. Grey, black, navy.
I grabbed a black one. I pulled it over my head, the scent of cedar and Graham enveloping me instantly. It came down to my mid-thighs.
I turned to leave.
"Take it off."
The voice was rough. Gravel and sleep and pure command.
I froze. My hand hovered over the doorknob.
I turned around slowly.
Graham was awake. He hadn't moved much—he was still lying on his stomach—but his eyes were open. Grey. Alert. Watching me with a predator’s focus.
"Good morning," I squeaked.
"Take the shirt off, Faye."
"I... I need to go."
"Where?"
"To my room. To... shower. To process the fact that I have violated at least three clauses of our contract."
Graham pushed himself up. He winced as he put weight on his right arm, quickly shifting to his left elbow. He rolled onto his back, the sheet slipping dangerously low on his hips. The V-lines of his muscles pointed toward paradise.
"Come here," he said.
"No."
He raised an eyebrow. "No?"
"I am not coming back to that bed, Graham. Last night was... it was a lot. We were emotional. You were injured. We made a mistake."
"A mistake?" His voice dropped, losing the sleep-haze and sharpening into steel. "Is that what you think that was?"
"Wasn't it?" I crossed my arms over my chest, trying to summon the Brat. "You hate chaos. I am chaos. We mixed, and now everything is messy. I’m doing you a favor by leaving."
"You’re running," he corrected. "You’re scared."
"I am terrified!" I shouted, the truth bursting out. "Because you look at me like that!"
"Like what?"
"Like you own me!"
Graham didn't deny it. He didn't offer a platitude. He just stared at me, his gaze sweeping over my bare legs, my messy hair, the shirt that belonged to him.
"Come here," he repeated. It wasn't a question. It was a summons.
My feet moved before my brain gave permission. It was magnetic. The pull of him was stronger than my fear.
I walked to the side of the bed.
"Closer."
I stepped until my knees hit the mattress.
Graham reached out with his left hand. He didn't grab me. He just wrapped his hand around my calf, his thumb stroking the sensitive skin behind my knee.
"You think I regret last night?" he asked softly.
"You should. I'm a liability."
"You're bruised," he murmured, ignoring me. His eyes were fixed on my thigh.
I looked down. There were faint, purple smudges on my inner thighs. Fingerprints. His fingerprints.
"Battle scars," I whispered.
"Proof," he corrected. He looked up at me. "Proof that you didn't imagine it. Proof that I didn't imagine it."
He tugged on my leg. "Get in."
"Graham, I—"
"Get. In."
I climbed onto the bed. I tried to sit on the edge, but he wasn't having it. He pulled me down until I was straddling his hips, my knees sinking into the duvet on either side of him.
He was warm. So warm.
I rested my hands on his chest, careful of the bad shoulder. I could feel his heart beating. Thump-thump. Thump-thump. Steady. Strong.
"Why are you trying to run away?" he asked, his hand sliding up my thigh, under the hem of the shirt.
"Because this is dangerous," I admitted, my voice shaking. "We live together. My father owns your contract. If this goes south... I have nowhere to go."
"Then don't let it go south."
"It always does! People leave, Graham. They get bored, or they get overwhelmed, or they realize I’m too much work."
"I’m not people," he said. "And I don't mind work. I like a challenge."
His hand moved higher, cupping my ass cheek through the thin cotton of the panties I hadn't managed to find. Oh wait—I wasn't wearing panties.
His hand touched bare skin.
I gasped, arching my back slightly.
"You're still wet," he noted, his voice darkening.
"I... I haven't showered."
"Good. I like smelling myself on you."
The dirty talk hit me like a physical blow. It short-circuited my brain. The "Brat" withered and died, replaced by the needy, desperate creature that had clawed at his back last night.
"Graham," I whined.
"Do you want to run, Faye?" He slid a finger into my cleft, teasing the entrance. "Do you want to go back to your cold, empty room and pretend this didn't happen?"
"No," I sobbed.
"What do you want?"
"You."
"Be specific."
He swirled his thumb over my clit. Just once. A promise of violence.
"I want you to make it quiet," I begged. "My head is so loud. Make it stop."
"Good girl."
He sat up. It was a struggle—I saw the grimace of pain as he engaged his core—but he did it. He sat up against the headboard, bringing me with him.
I was straddling his lap now, face to face.
"Shirt off," he commanded. "I want to see what I did to you."
This time, I didn't hesitate. I pulled the black t-shirt over my head and tossed it aside.
The morning sun hit my skin. I felt exposed. Naked. Flawed.
Graham’s eyes devoured me. He looked at my breasts, heavy and swollen. He looked at the bite mark on my neck. He looked at the bruises on my hips.
He didn't look at me with lust. He looked at me with reverence.
"Beautiful," he breathed.
He reached out and cupped my breasts, his thumbs brushing over my nipples. They hardened instantly, aching for his mouth.
"You belong to me now," he said. It wasn't a question. It was a statement of fact. "The contract is rewritten. Clause 1: You don't run."
"I don't run," I repeated, entranced.
"Clause 2: You tell me what you need. No guessing games. No passive-aggressive bullshit."
"Okay."
"Clause 3," he whispered, leaning forward to kiss the hollow of my throat. "You take everything I give you."
He shifted his hips beneath me.
I felt it then. He was hard. Rock hard. Pressing against my entrance.
"Graham," I gasped. "Your shoulder..."
"I can sit still," he growled. "You do the work. Can you do that for me, Princess? Can you take control?"
The challenge sparked something in me. He was giving me the reins, but he was still the one driving the chariot.
"Yes," I whispered.
I lifted my hips. I reached down to guide him.
The tip brushed against me. I shuddered.
"Look at me," he ordered.
I locked eyes with him. Grey and Green. Storm and Forest.
I sank down.
Slowly.
It was excruciating. I was sore, sensitive, and tight. Every inch was a battle between pleasure and pain.
Graham watched my face. He watched my pupils dilate. He watched my lip tremble.
When I was fully seated, hilt-deep, I let out a long, broken moan.
"There," he whispered. "Home."
We stayed like that for a moment, just breathing. Connected. The sun bathing us in light, stripping away all the shadows where we usually hid.
"Move," he commanded softly.
I began to rock.
It wasn't the frantic, desperate friction of last night. This was slow. Deliberate. Rolling my hips, grinding against him, feeling every ridge, every vein.
Graham’s hands rested on my hips, guiding me, keeping me steady. His head fell back against the headboard, his eyes fluttering shut, his jaw clenched.
"Fuck," he hissed. "You feel so good."
"You too," I panted. "You fill me up. Everywhere."
I placed my hands on his chest, over his pectoral muscles. I could feel the power there. The strength he held back.
I picked up the pace. The soreness faded, replaced by a burning, building heat. I needed friction. I needed release.
I started to bounce.
Graham groaned, his hands tightening on my waist to the point of pain.
"Careful," he rasped. "I’m close. I’m already close."
"Me too."
"Come for me, Faye. Use me."
He bucked his hips up, meeting my downward thrust. The angle hit that perfect, terrifying spot deep inside me.
My vision blurred. The room dissolved into white light.
"Graham!"
"Let go. Good girl. Let go."
I fell apart.
It wasn't just an orgasm. It was a surrender. I poured my fear, my insecurity, my pride—all of it—into him. I cried out, tears leaking from my eyes, my body convulsing around him.
He roared my name, his hips snapping up hard, burying himself to the root as he emptied himself inside me.
I collapsed onto his chest.
I lay there, listening to the thunder of his heart. I felt his hand stroking my hair, over and over again.
"I’ve got you," he whispered. "I’ve got you."
The silence returned. But it wasn't the silence of destruction anymore. It was the silence of a foundation setting.
We lay there for a long time. The sun moved across the room. The world outside—the campus, the team, my father—started to wake up.
"Graham?" I mumbled into his chest.
"Hmm?"
"I think I’m in trouble."
"What kind of trouble?"
"The kind where I don't want to leave this bed. Ever."
He chuckled, the vibration rumbling through my ribs.
"Good. Because you're not leaving."
He kissed the top of my head.
"Faye?"
"Yeah?"
"About the painting," he said, his voice shifting, becoming serious. "The one you were working on. The red one."
I stiffened. "You saw it?"
"I peeked in your sketchbook again. The sketches for it."
"It's a mess."
"It’s not a mess. It’s anger." He paused. "And it’s passion. You need to finish it."
"I can't. It keeps turning into... you."
"Then paint me," he said simply. "Stop fighting it. Paint the anger. Paint the sex. Paint whatever this is."
"What is this?" I asked, lifting my head to look at him.
He looked at me. His eyes were clear.
"I don't know," he admitted. "But I know I’d burn the city down before I let anyone take it away from me."
My heart squeezed. It was a terrifying admission from a man who valued order above all else.
"Okay," I whispered. "I’ll paint you."
"Good."
He shifted, wincing slightly as his shoulder protested.
"Pain?" I asked instantly.
"Manageable. But I probably need ice."
"I’ll get it."
I started to climb off him.
"Faye."
I stopped. "Yeah?"
"I haven't checked my phone since last night. Is the world ending?"
I froze. I hadn't checked mine either. I had been too busy living in this bubble.
"I don't know," I said. "Do we care?"
Graham looked at the ceiling. The shadow passed over his face again. The return of the Governor.
"We have to care," he said heavily. "Because if we don't, they’ll catch us off guard."
He reached for his phone on the nightstand.
I watched his face.
I saw the moment the peace shattered.
His jaw tightened. His eyes went cold. The hand holding the phone gripped it so hard I thought the screen would crack.
"Graham?" I whispered. "What is it?"
He didn't answer. He just turned the phone toward me.
It was a photo. Us. In the alley. The caption was vicious.
#SentinelScandal.
I felt the blood drain from my face.
"My father," I breathed.
"He knows," Graham said, his voice devoid of emotion. "And the Dean knows. And the team knows."
He sat up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed, putting his back to me. The scars on his back stared at me, accusers.
"The bubble just popped, Faye."
I reached out to touch him, but I stopped. The air around him had turned to ice.
"What do we do?" I asked, my voice small.
Graham stood up. He walked to the window, naked, unashamed, and stared out at the mountains.
"We get dressed," he said. "And we prepare for war."
He turned to look at me. The softness was gone. The lover was gone. The Governor was back.
"Because Silas Allister is coming for us. And he doesn't play by the rules."
I pulled the sheet up to my chin, shivering in the sudden cold. The best morning of my life had just turned into the beginning of the end. And I realized, with a sinking feeling in my gut, that I was in love with him.
And that love was about to cost us everything.