19. Syn
19
SYN
The grass feels amazing under my bare feet. I didn’t even stop for shoes or to clean up before bolting from the oppressiveness of the house. The sun is up and warm on my skin. My stomach growls with hunger, but I’m not going back in to search for food. My head pounds from the whiskey and my heart is beating too fast after the sex with Tristan. Why was it so different? Why do I feel shaky and empty now?
These questions rattle around my head as I approach a large pond in the far corner of the grounds. This estate is enormous, and I feel like I might get to know the outside of it very well over the next six days. The sun shines in my eyes as I edge closer to the pond, and then I stop dead.
Tarquin.
He is sitting on a small stone bench to the side of the pond, glaring into the water, his elbows on his knees. Blood coats his left hand, and my stomach clenches at the sight of it.
He doesn’t move a muscle, so I don’t know if he knows I’m here. Good. That means I can make my escape before he sees me.
Taking a silent step back, I wince when he says, “Two million.”
He doesn’t move his gaze away from the water, doesn’t look at me or even say my name. Just those two words I needed desperately to hear.
When I don’t say anything, he turns his head to stare at me. “Two million. That’s what you wanted, isn’t it?”
The morning breeze lifts my hair as I stand there, barefoot and dishevelled, with Tristan’s cum sticking to my inner thighs. I should feel triumphant. But instead, I feel hollow.
“Why now?” I ask, taking a tentative step toward him.
His blue eyes are as cold as winter. “Because you’ve made your point. Quite effectively.”
The bitterness in his voice makes me flinch.
“What happened to your hand?” I ask, changing the subject.
“Does it matter?”
“You’re bleeding. Of course it matters.”
He laughs, the sound harsh and without humour. “Suddenly concerned about my wellbeing, Ms Fuller?”
“Are you concerned about mine?” The question slips out before I can stop it.
There’s something unreadable flickering in those cold blue depths. “What do you think?”
I cross my arms over my chest, suddenly aware of how exposed I feel in this thin white dress. “I think you threw me to one of your pack mates in a fit of rage. I think you called me a whore. I think you’re bleeding because you’ve done something stupid, and now you’re offering me the money I asked for after staring into a pond.”
“I’m concerned about your ability to manipulate my pack.”
“Manipulate?” I laugh incredulously. “That’s rich coming from you. You’re the one who threw me at Tristan like I was nothing more than a toy you were tired of, who handed me over to Declan to punish .”
Tarquin stands abruptly, his height imposing as he towers over me. “And you’re the one who purrs for Tristan after less than an hour in his company, when you’ve been fighting me since the moment you arrived.”
My cheeks burn at the reprimand. The fact that he knows about the purr means he was listening. Something about that sends an unexpected thrill through me.
“Perhaps he deserved it more,” I say, lifting my chin defiantly.
His jaw clenches. “Perhaps.”
We stand there, the morning sun warming my bare shoulders as we stare each other down. Blood drips steadily from his hand onto the manicured grass.
“Let me see your hand,” I say finally, softening my tone.
“Why?”
“Because you’re bleeding all over your perfect lawn, and I don’t particularly want to watch you bleed out before I get my two million.”
Something like amusement flickers across his face before it’s replaced by his usual mask of indifference. He holds out his injured hand, palm up. It’s a mess of cuts and embedded glass, the blood still flowing freely despite his attempts to stop it with a ruined silk handkerchief.
I step closer, taking his hand in mine. The touch sends an unexpected current through me that I try to ignore. “You need to get the glass out,” I say, my voice steadier than I feel.
“I’m aware.”
“Then why haven’t you done it?”
“I like the pain.”
“Like Declan?”
“Nothing like Declan,” he states and turns from me to sit down again and stare at the pond.
I feel like I’ve hit a nerve, but I don’t know why.
“Why have you really given in to my renegotiation?”
“Does it matter if you get what you want?”
“It matters if you have something planned for me that is going to cost me that extra one million.”
“Nothing you haven’t already done.”
The penny drops as understanding floods me. “Declan’s whatever the hell.” I don’t even need to ask, I just know.
“I did something I have never done before, and it was wrong.”
“What was that?” I whisper.
“I told him to find another outlet for his demons. That’s not my place, and quite frankly, it will damage him. If he asks you to whip him, cut him, stab him, drown him in the pond… you will do it. End of discussion.”
The words hang between us, heavy and terrible. I stare at Tarquin’s profile as he gazes at the pond, his face unreadable.
“You can’t be serious,” I finally manage, my voice barely audible over the gentle lapping of water against the stone edge.
“You will do what he asks.”
I step back, wrapping my arms around myself. “And if I refuse?”
“Then you get one million instead of two.” His eyes finally meet mine, cold and resolute. “Your choice.”
The morning air suddenly feels chill against my skin despite the sunshine. I think of Declan’s reaction when I brought the whip down across his back.
“He needs help,” I say quietly. “Not someone to enable him.”
“A psychiatrist are you now, Ms Fuller? Declan has found a way to survive. I won’t take that from him.”
“By hurting himself?”
“By controlling the pain.” He flexes his injured hand, wincing slightly. “Sometimes, the only way to feel anything is through pain.”
I study him, seeing something vulnerable beneath the cold exterior for the first time. “Is that why you haven’t bandaged your hand? To feel something?”
Tarquin’s jaw tightens, the only indication that my words have hit their mark. For a moment, I think he won’t answer, but then he says quietly, “Don’t presume to understand me, Synthia.”
“I don’t,” I admit, moving to sit beside him on the stone bench, leaving a careful space between us. “But I understand pain.”
He glances sideways at me, something shifting in his expression. “Do you?”
The question hangs between us, loaded with meaning. I stare at the pond, watching ripples spread across the surface as a breeze disturbs the water.
“Everyone has their demons,” I say finally. “Mine just don’t involve asking someone to whip me.”
“Only asking for two million pounds.” His statement, while true, is like a slap in the face.
I have nothing to say to that. We sit in an uncomfortable silence.
“Are you in trouble?” he asks after several long moments.
“No,” I say instantly. The last thing I want is to get him involved in my giant mess of a life.
“If you bring shit to my door, you end up with nothing, not even five hundred thousand.”
“No trouble,” I say lightly.
“I won’t ask again.”
“You won’t have to.”
His threat has driven home how carefully I have to tread, and sitting here with him is too dicey for me to continue pretending. I stand up and walk away, part of me hoping he calls me back, but he doesn’t. I should be relieved, but all I can think about is how it would feel to spill my secrets to him and have him fix it.
But that will never happen. I’m not his problem to fix. I’m not his omega to bail out. I’m nothing to him except his pride.