Chapter 13 Riley #2
The discussion continued, though I wasn’t paying any attention. I knew we were deep into the book’s explicit scenes now, debating whether the hero’s possessiveness was romantic or problematic, but I was too busy watching Caelan and testing.
“I think there’s an appeal to being claimed,” I said suddenly, locking eyes with Caelan as I said the word claimed. “To being the sole focus of someone’s obsession. Knowing that they would do anything for you. Anything.”
Heat flooded my chest. Want, need, a hunger that made my toes curl in my shoes. That was when I finally realized those feelings weren’t mine but his.
“The heroine surrenders control,” Margo said, “but it’s consensual. She wants it.”
“Exactly.” I was still looking at Caelan. “Sometimes it’s a relief to let someone else take over. To trust someone enough to surrender.”
“You think surrender can be empowering?” Caelan asked, his voice low. His eyes hadn’t left mine.
“I think it depends on who you’re surrendering to.” I leaned forward slightly, watching his reaction. “The right person makes it feel safe. The wrong person makes it a trap.”
“And how do you know which is which?”
“You feel it.” I pressed my hand to my chest, right over my heart. “Here.”
More heat and arousal. His eyes darkened, gray going nearly black. His hands gripped the edge of the table as he fought to control his need to claim. Claim me.
I could feel that too. The effort it was taking him not to react, not to reach for me. Not to do something that would scandalize the entire book club.
“The restraint scene in chapter twelve,” I continued, keeping my voice casual even as my heart raced. “I thought that was particularly well done. The tension, the trust. How she gives him complete control over her body.”
“That scene was intense,” Sloane agreed. “Very... thorough.”
“Thorough,” Caelan repeated, and his voice had dropped even lower. “Is that what you look for? Thoroughness?”
“Among other things.” I smiled innocently. “Attention to detail. Dedication. The willingness to take your time.”
His jaw tightened. “Patience,” he said. “That’s important too.”
“Is it?”
“Very.” His eyes held mine. “Some things are worth waiting for.”
The tension between us could have powered a small city.
The opportunity to really test my theory came again when Sam, apparently recovering his courage from across the room, asked loudly: “So what’s the deal with you two? Are you together?”
The room went quiet again and everyone looked at me, holding their breaths. Caelan was watching me with an expression of terrifying hope, so I panicked.
“We’re nothing,” I said quickly. The words came out without thinking, pure defensive instinct, walls slamming up before I could stop them. “Caelan’s not my type. I only see him as a platonic friend.”
Pain.
It slammed into my chest as if someone had punched me in the face.
Hurt and rejection and a feeling that was horribly, awfully close to heartbreak filled my entire being.
My breath caught, my eyes stung and my chest ached like someone had reached in and squeezed my heart until it couldn’t beat anymore.
But I wasn’t feeling any of that. Those weren’t my emotions. I knew what my emotions felt like, and this was different. This was external, coming from somewhere else. Someone else.
Caelan’s face was carefully blank, his jaw tight, his hands clenched in his lap. His knuckles were white, and a muscle jumped in his cheek.
“Right,” he said quietly. “Platonic.”
The word was empty, hollow, as if he’d scooped out all the meaning and left only the shell.
Oh god.
It was true. I was feeling what he was feeling. And I just… I just broke his heart while he was sitting right next to me.
I dissociated through the rest of the meeting, barely speaking.
Someone asked me a question about the book’s ending and I answered on autopilot, the words coming out of my mouth but I wasn’t really there.
I was too busy drowning in guilt and confusion and an impossible, inexplicable connection to a man I’d just publicly rejected.
Caelan’s hurt slowly hardened into resignation. His hope and certainty that he’d been wrong about us died by the second.
The book club ended, and I barely remembered any of it.
People filed out one by one. Sam left first, practically running, giving Caelan a buffer zone that could accommodate a small aircraft.
Margo hugged me goodbye, whispered “be kind to the poor man” in my ear.
Jade and Thessa left together, Thessa shooting her brother a concerned look that made my guilt spike even higher.
Even Sloane left without insisting on driving me home.
That was significant. Sloane had been hovering protectively since the Damien situation, always making sure I got home safe, always watching for threats. The fact that she was willing to leave me alone with Caelan meant she trusted him now.
Which was only one more point in Caelan’s favor.
One more reason I was an asshole for what I’d said.
I was wiping down tables when I realized we were alone. Caelan was in the kitchen, the sound of running water suggesting he was doing the dishes again because of course he was. Even hurt, even rejected, he was still here. Still helping, still taking care of things without being asked.
The man I’d just called “not my type” was washing my dishes. I was the worst person alive.
So I stood in the doorway, watching him. His shirt was wet where he’d leaned against the counter. His shoulders were tense, so tense they looked painful. His movements were mechanical, efficient, like he was trying to keep his hands busy so he wouldn’t have to think.
I could also feel what was underneath his tension.
Hurt, still. Uncertainty. A self-doubt that surprised me.
This confident, intense man who’d threatened to remove someone’s eyes over a chair was doubting whether I wanted him around.
Doubting whether he’d read everything wrong.
Shit. I’d messed it up so bad, even before we even started.
He turned off the water and cleared his throat, but didn’t turn around.
“Are you okay?” His voice was careful, distant, like he was handling a bomb that might explode at any moment. “You were quiet tonight.”
I stared at his back. I could tell him, explain what was happening, ask if he felt it too, demand answers to questions I didn’t even know how to ask.
I kept the secret instead.
“I’m fine.”
“You don’t seem fine.”
“I’m just tired.”
He finally turned. His gray eyes were guarded in a way I’d never seen before. Walls up, defenses raised. Protecting himself from me. I hated it so damn much.
“I should probably go,” he said.
The words hurt me, and they hurt him. I could feel both, overlapping, bleeding together until I couldn’t tell whose pain was whose.
I was so tired. Tired of fighting this, of pretending I didn’t feel what I felt. Tired of the walls and the fear and the constant push-pull between us.
There was more going on here. A force bigger than casual attraction, bigger than friendship, bigger than anything I’d experienced before.
A connection that let me feel his emotions like they were my own.
A bond that tied us together. I didn’t know what it meant, but I made a decision right then and there.
I was fucking done.