Chapter 24 THE LIBRARY
Present: Chicago
The familiar melody stops me in my tracks as I walk past the partially opened door to the library.
Beethoven’s “Für Elise.”
Lana sits in her usual spot on the chaise lounge, cozy in a warm, fuzzy sweater dress that shows off her long legs. A bottle of wine and a glass sit on the side table.
She’s humming under her breath as her fingers flip through the pages of a familiar book.
Then she empties her glass and lets out a very unladylike burp before reaching for the bottle to pour more.
Only to find it empty.
She growls like a puppy being denied her favorite toy. Lips pursed, she gets up, but sways and quickly sits back down.
“Oops.” Lana hiccups, then mutters, “I’m so buzzed. Shouldn’t drink that much. But it’s boring here. Boring.”
Something warm gathers behind my rib cage.
My chest tightens. I slide my hand into my pocket and grip my lighter.
I should walk away. I should think about her role in my family’s deaths and why I married her. She’s leverage. A means to an end.
But I haven’t had my twenty-eight minutes today yet. So I pull out my phone, set a timer, and watch her again.
Clearly tired, she yawns and stretches on the chaise, her book falling to the floor. Her dress rides up on her thighs and stretches over her luscious curves.
Blood surges to my cock and I relive the way she feels in my arms, her needy sounds when she’s turned on, the fire in her eyes when she fights me with everything she has. Gripping the doorway for support, I memorize every delectable inch of her, looking so gorgeous and safe in my home.
For a moment, I’m transported to the past. This was Kian’s dream, having Elise safe in his home, creating a life together.
It will never happen.
And when she turns thirty-five and I get my hands on the package, we’ll part ways. She’ll go on and find a nice man with good connections, have the babies I know she loves, judging from the way she is with her nieces and nephews.
I will never see her again.
The tightening sensation worsens. I loosen my tie, needing oxygen to release me from this pain.
She turns a page—then stillness. Lana’s gaze drifts to me.
“All that ogling, and I might think you’re in love with me,” she mutters and reaches for her book on the floor, only to miss it.
“You’re drunk.” I arch my brow. “And I wasn’t staring.”
A teasing smile curves her lips and the sight of it—no animosity or hatred, like she’s forgotten what I did to her—temporarily robs me of speech.
“And I-I’m,” another hiccup, “currently not being held prisoner against my will.”
“You signed up for this.”
“You forced me into it.”
My lips twitch in amusement. “It’s for the greater good.”
“Is it now?” She narrows her eyes. “I have a feeling it serves your agenda more than it protects me.”
Clearly annoyed, she reaches toward her book again, but her body loses its momentum and pitches forward.
In a few strides, I reach her before she face-plants onto the ground and gently ease her back onto the chaise.
“Ugh. It’s embarrassing letting you see me like this,” she groans and closes her eyes.
Chuckling, I pick up her book and set it on her lap.
Hades and Persephone again. Some things never change.
“It’s not the first time you’ve been an embarrassment in front of me. I’ve seen you drunk before. Very unladylike.”
Her eyes snap open. “Asshole. And when?”
I sit down on the floor, my fingers twiddling with my lighter. “You don’t remember?”
When she doesn’t answer me, I glance back, finding an adorable frown on her face as she racks her memory.
Then she sits up and slaps her forehead. “When you started helping at The Orchid ten years ago! That was you, huh? I always thought I heard someone talking to me that night, but I don’t remember.”
“Because you were drunk. You should be more careful of your surroundings. There are monsters everywhere who’d take advantage.”
She snorts. “Look where that’s got me. Here. With you. The monster of all monsters.”
I stand before I realize what I’m doing, and a second later, I’m hovering over her.
Her eyes go wide as she stares at me.
“I never take advantage of women,” I rasp.
Her lips part, her wine-scented breath grazes my face. I watch in fascination as a pink flush creeps up her neck to her face, and those startling gray eyes darken as the seconds stretch by.
“When I touch a woman, it’s because she wants it.”
“B-But in the office, and on Th-Thanksgiving…”
“You didn’t walk away.” I lean down until barely an inch separates us. “And you wanted it, Lana. You wanted every single second of it. I could smell your arousal.”
A soft whimper escapes her, and my cock hardens to full mast.
I swallow a groan, my hands clenching the chaise lounge for dear life because if I touch her, I’m done.
She’s drunk. She’s a means to an end. This is not part of your twenty-eight minutes.
But then she touches me. Drags a gentle finger over my scar, down my neck, setting me on fire.
Two slender hands mold over my shoulders then slide to my front, where my dress shirt is unbuttoned.
She slips her hands inside my shirt and caresses my pecs.
Skin touching skin.
“So hard. Muscular.” Lana continues her tentative exploration. “Your tattoos are so beautiful.”
Visions of me pinning her down, ripping her dress, suckling on her damn pointy nipples, and feasting on her wet pussy fill my mind. I want to taste her honey at the source. I want to know what she sounds like when she comes apart with me buried deep inside her.
“Fuck. Stop, Lana. Stop. You’re drunk.” Sweat beads on my upper lip, but I can’t step away.
She hums again. Beethoven’s melody. Our melody. Her fingers reach for my buttons.
“I said stop!” I wrench away with my last remaining willpower. “Are you that desperate for a man, you’d go for someone who treats you like shit?”
Lana flinches, her eyes widening with shock, then hurt. The intoxicated haze clears.
I want to take back the words, but they’re necessary. There can’t be any feelings between us. Unless it’s animosity.
“I hate you, Elias Kent. That,” she motions to the air between us, “was a drunken mistake. I don’t know what I was thinking.”
“Make sure it doesn’t happen again.”
With my thoughts spinning, my inhibitions at a breaking point, I pivot, walk out of the room, and slam the door behind me.
It can never happen again.