Chapter Twenty Four
“Harper, what are you doing?” Rhys frowns, standing in the doorway.
He doesn’t take a step inside, his eyes darting around the office with a haunted expression on his taut face.
I straighten slowly from where I’m half-crouched beside the desk, my pulse tripping and my mind scrambling to come up with a believable excuse.
“I—” I start, then stop. Lying to Rhys has never sat well with me.
Some may argue he deserves it, but I know him better than that.
However, in this instance, given how he reacted to talking about his mom this morning, I’m not sure the truth would be worse.
He told me to drop it, yet here I am snooping for…
I don’t know what. Proof of life? Something to signify that Della Mae must be out there somewhere, just as miserable and craving a connection as he is.
Rhys stays rooted to the threshold, waiting for my answer as his fingers curl and unfurl at his sides. My shoulders sink, not seeing any way around this until a voice sounds from inside my head.
“This is a treasure trove of information,” Clayton says into the mic.
I fight to keep my expression blank. “Keep him busy for a while. I think I might actually have something here.” Meeting Rhys’ stare, he gives me a look that says he’s five seconds from dragging me out of here and slamming the door shut.
What if it locks again? How will I explain that Clayton will have to pick the lock from the inside?
Swallowing, I decide that I won’t lie. I’ll just stall long enough to let Clay finish his investigation. And besides, it’s not a lie if there is some truth to it. Rhys watches me slip around the desk and then slowly lift my weight to sit on the edge.
“I promised I would help you rewrite the bad memories you have in this manor. We can’t ignore this one,” I pat the desk beside me.
I don’t know exactly what happened here, but I know enough by the way he won’t cross the threshold, by the way his knuckles have gone white, by the way his chest is barely rising.
“Harper,” Rhys growls, grating against my receivers.
“This is the last place I want to see you. Get. Out.” I don’t move.
Instead, I slide back until the edge of the desk presses into the backs of my knees, and reach for the hem of my sweater.
Rhys gives a few more light threats, but when I peel my sweater and cami off in one motion, leaving me naked from the waist up, he quickly stops talking.
My teeth sink into my bottom lip, and the heat in my core starts to flicker to life.
So much for needing a break after last night.
Yet I can’t deny the electric charge filtering through the air, guiding my movements.
It’s forbidden, especially with Clay right behind the bookcase, but that’s what makes it so much hotter.
“I mean it, Harper,” Rhys tries again, although his voice is losing its harsh edge.
The repeated use of my name is an indicator of how serious he is, but the cracks are showing.
I shake my head slowly, deliberately catching Rhys’ attention on my fingers before they find themselves toying with the metal bars through my nipples, rolling and tugging the buds into hard peaks.
Rhys’ foot slips over the threshold before he catches himself and draws it back.
“You don’t get to decide what trauma I revisit,” he snaps, but it lacks bite.
His eyes won’t leave the way my hands are teasing my breasts, fingers drawing up to my collarbone, over my stretched neck and into my hair.
My heart is racing, not with fear, but with the fierce, stubborn resolve he loves me for. “I…I won’t let you do this for me.”
“I’m not asking you to relive anything, Rhys.
I’m asking you to take back control.” Unclipping my receivers, I toss them onto the antique rug, effectively ending our conversation.
If he wants to communicate with me, he’s going to have to come over here to do it.
Teasing my hair through my hands, I roll my head, exposing the parts of my neck I know he likes to sink his teeth into.
The patches of skin he likes to leave a mark on.
For a long, brutal moment, I wonder if I’m only making a fool of myself. If I’m pushing him further than he’s prepared to go. Then a hand grips my jaw, dragging my eyes back to the harsh lines of his face.
“I hate that you’re in there,” he admits soundlessly, his lips almost too tight to read. “I hate that you’ve seen it.”
“I’m not seeing anything except you,” I reply without hesitation.
“My Rhys. The man who doesn’t let his demons win.
” I run my fingers over his arms, stroking the infernal figures stretched across his skin.
His eyes finally lift to mine, glossy and conflicted, and something shifts between us.
“I just want to help, if you’ll let me?”
His fingers tremble ever so slightly, the restraint he’s clinging to starting to shatter.
For a moment, neither of us moves. His chest is rising too fast, his breath shallow, like he’s bracing for a blow that never comes.
I can almost see it happening behind his eyes, the tug-of-war between instinct and want, between running and staying.
Slowly, I lift my hands to his wrists, not to pull him closer, not to push him away, just to anchor him in the storm he’s trying to weather alone.
“You don’t have to do anything,” I say quietly, keeping my voice steady even as my heart gallops.
“You don’t have to stay if you really don’t want to.
I just wanted you to see that you have the power to cross the threshold.
This room doesn’t own you.” Rhys’ eyes flash at this, something breaking through his reservations.
“Nothing owns me,” Rhys states, his jaw loosening, “Except you.”
My chest tightens so sharply it almost hurts, emotion blooming hot and fast behind my ribs.
This isn’t possession in the way Rhys used to wield.
This is surrender, spoken into the silence, yet I heard it.
My mind conjures Rhys’ voice, how his delivery would have been cold and factual, but his eyes say otherwise.
Swirling in their blue depths, Rhys appears more alive than he ever has.
I slide my hands fully around his wrists now, thumbs brushing over the pulse points there, feeling how fast his heart is beating.
Guiding his hands downwards, brushing past my breasts, I settle them on my waist. His grip is hesitant, his breathing slightly irregular as if he’s still bracing for a consequence.
The hold this office has on him is so deeply ingrained, I reckon no amount of time can heal the trauma he’s faced in here, but even just a tiptoe in the right direction is a start.
I’m desperate to help, then the world will see the man I’ve known him to be all along.
“Whenever you’re feeling this way, you can choose me.
Over the fear. Over him. I’m right here.
” I vow, playing with the hem of his T-shirt.
Rhys’ forehead drops to mine, his breath warm and uneven against my lips.
His eyes slide shut for a second, lashes dark against his skin, and when he opens them again, he’s stripped bare.
My heart stutters at the vulnerability seeping through, as if all of his carefully constructed walls have just come crashing down.
He’s never been more beautiful than at this moment.
Brushing my mouth against his, I pause, letting him decide how far we go.
He’s in control now, and no sooner than he realizes that, his mouth is on mine.
His hunger tastes like a forbidden blend of heaven and sin, like a demon who has clawed his way back to angel wings and wears them dripping in blood.
If I thought Rhys would allow me to tentatively patch over his old scars, I was wrong.
He attacks me with the vigor of a man who wants to blast those old scars to hell, eradicating them from his very soul.
His hands are everywhere, gripping my waist, sliding up my spine, fingers splaying like he needs to memorize the proof that I am real and here and choosing him.
I gasp into his mouth when he uses his body weight to push me backwards, the surface of the desk biting cold against my back.
Pausing just long enough to drag his T-shirt over his head, he’s back on me, the warmth of his inked skin breathing life into mine.
The room shrinks around us, the dark wood and leather fading until there is only the heat of his body and the way his kiss devours without hurting, claiming without taking.
He kisses me like he is starving and terrified all at once, like if he stops, he might remember where he is and why this room once broke him.
So I kiss him back just as fiercely, threading my fingers into his hair, anchoring him to now.
Rhys pulls back only far enough to breathe, his forehead dropping to my shoulder as his lips trace a frenzied path along my jaw and down my neck.
I arch into him, unable to stop the vibration of sound escaping my throat.
Dipping lower, Rhys drags his mouth over my collar bones and breasts, placing kisses and small bites before licking a path lower.
His hands are still trembling as they hold my ribs, his desperate need to replace pain with sensation, fear with want, driving his actions.
“Please, Rhys,” I sigh, not sure what I’m pleading for specifically but needing him everywhere.
Flicking the button of my jeans, he drags the denim down my legs, tossing them aside before doing the same to my panties.
I stare at the ceiling, my teeth cemented in my bottom lip as his hands widen my thighs, his heated breath against my clit preceding a long stroke of his tongue.