CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR #2
Before the ball, we head to an entertainment suite to have dinner and amuse ourselves with the antics our guests pull in the escape-room challenges.
The elevator stops on the wrong floor, and my irritation seeps out in a grunt.
When my eyes snap from the button I’m hammering on the control panel to the open doors, my heart halts far more abruptly than the metal cube did.
Zara stands before us, in a champagne dress plucked straight from the 1920s.
It has a plunging V neckline, showcasing the provocative swell of her breasts, thin straps that likely lead to a mostly open back that I’m desperate to catch a glimpse of, and a hemline fringed with glittery beads that hit mid-thigh and graze her toned legs.
Her hair is down in large Hollywood waves, and her heels are strappy, revealing her cute gold-painted toes. Every inch of her is delectable.
But there’s another accessory that is the reason my empty lungs are burning.
Her luscious lips curl into one of those amorous grins she loves to flash me. “This isn’t your floor. Did you get turned around?”
That’s close to how she greeted me in the women’s restroom the day she’d arrived, so I brandish the sentiment of my previous retort.
“The most breathtaking views arrive on the paths we never expected to take.”
Her emerald eyes flash with so many emotions that it’s difficult to discern what she’s thinking, but then she brushes her fingers over the diamond choker around her neck. It’s dainty and elegant, like my radiant girl, composed of delicate roses on a string of thorns.
“Well, this must be my lucky night. I was hoping to find a poet.” She scans my family—whom I’d temporarily forgotten existed. “Mind if I steal him?”
A roar of answers ensues, which I can’t discern over the blood rushing in my ears or my precarious pulse. Mercy elbows my ribs before Cash shoves me into the hallway, but my eyes never leave Zara’s, and seconds later, my family’s gone.
“You are exquisite.” On impulse, I reach for her, but freeze when I realize we’re in view of the security cameras and I have to pretend she isn’t mine, even though every cell in my body knows she fucking is. “We should go somewhere.”
“No,” she breathes, her fingers still frolicking over that choker. “I mean … not … But he that dares not grasp the thorn / Should never crave the rose.”
“ ‘The Narrow Way,’ ” I confirm, regarding the poem title I scrawled inside the gift box I handed her on my balcony.
“I don’t know why it never occurred to me,” she goes on.
“So much of us getting to know each other has been through our shared love of literature. It’s felt like …
home. My mother used to read me poetry. I saw the collection of Anne Bronte’s poems on your shelf, and I love that one, but I still thought the nickname meant I was a thorn in your side. ”
“It did,” I tease, shoving my hands in my pockets so I don’t touch her. “But I knew from the start you were a thorn worth keeping, one I couldn’t bear to remove. And I don’t want you to take that to mean that I craved the rose and endured the thorn. Both are gifts.”
I love every part of you—the darkness and the light. Even if you can’t love me back.
She blows out a breath, her palm pressing on her sternum. “It’s beautiful and so thoughtful. I … I want this.”
Her bashfulness is confounding. It makes me question whether she’s referring to us or simply the jewelry.
One of the interests she expressed in the survey I gave her was her desire to wear a collar—to have that symbol of belonging all the time.
Zara is not the typical depiction of a submissive, nor is she what some would consider a brat.
She’s uniquely her—a mix of both, woven with her own dominant spirit.
Based on that uniqueness, the collar makes sense.
She’s been so lonely, so having a physical reminder of being connected to someone would be comforting, much like a wedding ring, but more intense because the collar transcends social expectations of expressing commitment.
It suggests a higher level of trust and partnership, an ownership of sorts.
There are no words to describe the elation overwhelming me, seeing her clad in one I designed for her.
“You are breathtaking, Zara. It looks stunning on you. It’s yours, even—”
“If it’s not too late”—she edges closer, her fingers climbing slowly up my tuxedo lapels—“I was trying to tell you that I want this. Us.”
I cup my hand over hers, lace our fingers together, and tow her toward the staircase, the air too stuffy in this hallway to have such an important conversation. “You gave me no indication that you were even considering accepting my proposal, and that’s the only way we can happen.”
She keeps pace, even in her three-inch glittery Jimmy Choos, as we ascend several flights and meander through a back corridor.
“It wasn’t a decision I was willing to make lightly.
I needed to be certain—for myself—where I wanted to be, no matter how this played out.
I’m essentially still a captive, so if you force me …
I made a promise to my mother, and I might have only been eight or nine at the time, and maybe if she were here, she’d give me different advice, but … ”
The weight that advice holds is evident, even without her fully vocalizing it.
When we reach the ballroom, I guide her inside to a hidden cove that’s practically in the rafters, a perch in the sky to stare down at the festivities.
Below, the catering employees scurry about with last-minute preparations, and the band is warming up with a swing number.
It’s a prelude to the party just over an hour away and the perfect setting for us to breathe without prying eyes.
She soaks it all in with awe as if she can already see the guests, dancing the Charleston or convening near a champagne fountain.
As if she were viewing all the magic of past Prohibition Balls.
So, I wait, my eyes on her, enamored by her beauty.
It means a lot to me that she finds all I’ve created enchanting, but there’s so much at stake.
I’m trying to discern where her head is at.
Eventually, my patience thins, and I pull her against me, my arms wrapped around her waist, my chin on her shoulder, as we peer down at the ballroom—the confetti and balloons, the ice sculptures, acrobat ropes, and clock, counting down our minutes. “What was your mother’s advice?”
“To only marry for love. She said business could be done in a variety of ways, so marriage shouldn’t be one of them.
It was a vow of devotion.” She huffs a small laugh, her eyes planted on the band as they switch to a sultry jazz song with a promiscuous drawl of the saxophone.
“She loved my father, so I don’t think it was about that, though she did add that I should go somewhere magical for my honeymoon because it wouldn’t last forever, but the memories would. ”
“Are you negotiating for a honeymoon?”
She cranes her neck to get a better glimpse of me, her forehead scrunched in the most adorable display of aggravation. “You know that’s not what I was getting at.”
I do. But the petty bastard in me believes five more minutes of anxiety for her is warranted after the three days of agony I’ve endured. And truthfully, I’m still not sure what she’s willing to do, and that clock reads more like a ticking bomb than an anticipatory gauge.
“What were you getting at then?”
“Well, if we’re putting things on the table, a honeymoon would be nice.” She spins in my arms, her fingers perusing the string of diamond thorns once again as she implores me from beneath the fan of her lashes. “I’d also like to experience a night somewhere when all I wear is my collar.”
My mind and my dick hear every word between those lines. Fuck.
“Done.” That response is all gravel and lust, and I know—I know—she’s wet and ready for me, but with a deep inhale, I veer us back on track.
“I need more, Zar. This won’t be easy. If I were a better man, maybe I’d tell you to run, like I tried to at the beginning.
But I’m not a good man, and I’ve never wanted anything the way I want you.
I’m sorry it has to be like this, rushed and … but—”
“My answer is yes.”
My mind races, dashing from zero to five thousand in a heartbeat. “Yes to marrying me? Yes to being a Noire first, no matter the mission? Yes to letting me claim you? Yes to my family?”
“Yes to all of it. The ring, the collar, the family, the life. Even the challenges. Yes to loving you, Axel Noire.”
Downplaying my nerves, I curl my lips into a haughty smile. “You love me.”
“So much. You’re my Atlas.”
I tug her closer, erasing every molecule of air between us. “That’s good, because I’m so in love with you that I was seriously considering chaining you to my bed.”
“We’ll back-pocket that.” She entwines her arms behind my neck. “But I do have one more request. It’s kind of a nonnegotiable.”
“Go ahead,” I order, tamping down my excitement until I’m assured that she’s not going to break me.
“Can I be your date tonight?”
“You want to be my date tonight?” I sweep her off the ground, palming her head and seizing her lips. It doesn’t matter that I tasted her this morning. That felt like a goodbye, and this is … everything. “Let’s start with being my date forever.”
“I’ll speak my hospitable poet’s language. Forever is composed of Nows,” she says, quoting Emily Dickinson.
My brilliant Thorn.
Nothing could be more fitting. No matter what the future holds, the present is ours.