Chapter 14
Chapter Fourteen
Henry
I hurried Ariana inside, quickly igniting the gas fireplace.
The flames crackled in the stone hearth, but she barely noticed.
She moved like a ghost, slow and shivering with a vacant expression.
I carefully helped her sit on the couch a few feet from the blaze, crouching in front of her.
When I peeled her socks off, my jaw tightened at the sight of her feet, her toes blue from the cold.
“Dammit,” I muttered, more to myself than her.
This was my fault.
I’d watched her on the monitors as she crept through the cabin, eyes wide with confusion. I saw her hesitation when she reached the front door. Then I watched her make a run for it.
And I let her go. Let her run straight into the snow, knowing she was only wearing a thin t-shirt. Knowing she wasn’t wearing any shoes.
I should have stopped her right away.
But I was intrigued. Wanted to see how she handled the maze of trees and wilderness I was forced to learn like the back of my hand when I was a child.
“We need to get these wet clothes off you,” I insisted, my fingers brushing the hem of her shirt.
In a heartbeat, she snapped out of whatever trance she was it, her hand clamping around my wrist, her skin frigid against mine.
“I c-can…” She paused, fighting off another shiver. “I can do it myself,” she rushed out. “D-do you have something I can change into?”
I straightened and ran a hand through my hair, exhaling slowly.
I’d messaged Blake earlier to arrange some clothes and other necessities for her.
They wouldn’t arrive until tomorrow. Some of my mom’s clothes would probably fit, even if they were a little big, but that was a line I wasn’t ready to cross.
Not today.
Probably not ever.
“You’ll have to wear my stuff for now while I put your clothes in the wash.” I peeled my Henley over my head.
She stared at the shirt in my outstretched hand. Then her eyes moved to my bare chest before snapping back up to meet my gaze.
“That won’t fit.”
“Stop being difficult and put the damn shirt on.”
She didn’t immediately agree. Almost like she was trying to hold on to whatever autonomy or independence she could. In a way, it was cute that she was willing to freeze to death to make a point.
Finally, she stood, snatching the shirt from my hand. “Turn around.”
I leveled her with a stare, not wanting her to think she could tell me what to do. But I eventually turned, staying close in case she needed help.
Behind me, I made out the sound of fabric rustling, followed by a muffled curse.
I started to glance over my shoulder. “Everything okay?”
“Turn around!” she snapped, her words echoing in the rafters. “I said I can do it myself.”
“I can help you,” I offered softly. “Your fingers are probably too cold to?—”
“I don’t need your fucking help.”
There it was again. That entitled tone I’d expected from a woman like her. A woman accustomed to everyone jumping at her command.
But there was something else beneath it.
Something raw.
Something broken.
“Fine,” I muttered, focusing on the fire again.
Cato padded up beside me, his eyes trained on her like he was trying to figure her out, too. He craned his head, a silent question in his dark eyes. A question I doubted I’d ever be able to answer.
“You can turn around now,” she announced after several long moments. What should have only taken her a matter of seconds took several minutes. She was stubborn. That much was certain.
As aggravating as it was, I liked it. Liked her fire. Her spirit. Even though I wasn’t supposed to like anything about her.
I turned and fought to keep my eyes locked on hers, but it was nearly impossible not to rake my gaze over her.
My Henley swallowed her slender frame, the sleeves hanging past her wrists, the hem grazing the middle of her thighs.
Bare legs stretched beneath it, dusted with goosebumps and faint bruises, most likely from her fall in the woods.
Her golden blonde hair hung in loose waves in front of her shoulders like a halo.
Through it, I was able to make out some redness around her throat now that her scarf was gone.
Apparently, she and her husband liked to spice things up in the bedroom.
The thought shouldn’t have affected me, but the idea of Victor being able to have her like that made something angry and jealous stir inside of me.
I turned abruptly and stalked over to the hallway closet, grabbing a thick blanket and spare pillow before returning and tossing them onto the couch.
“Get warm. I’ll be back.” I looked down at my dog. “Cato. Stay.”
He obeyed, standing beside her like she belonged to him already.
“That’s his name?” she asked, her voice softening.
“It is.”
“Hey, Cato.” Lowering herself onto the couch, she smiled at the Chesapeake Bay Retriever. It wasn’t the painted, hollow one I’d seen in photographs or during galas. This one was real. Soft. Beautiful.
She stretched out her hand. Cato sniffed, then nudged into her palm. She lit up like the sun had cracked through a storm cloud.
This woman — Victor Kane’s pampered, spoiled wife — was sitting barefoot on my couch, wearing my shirt, and petting my dog like she belonged here.
I turned before I could forget why I brought her here in the first place, hurrying into the basement to grab a new shirt before heading back upstairs and into the kitchen.
My hands moved on autopilot as I made hot chocolate the way my mother used to — milk, dark cocoa, a pinch of salt. The scent pulled me into the past. Snowstorms. Wool blankets. Safety. Back when I still believed good and evil were easy to tell apart.
I learned the hard way they weren’t.
Once I finished mixing up the hot chocolate, I carried it back to the living room and stopped short at the scene that greeted me.
Ariana had slid to the floor and sat cross-legged beside Cato, her hand moving gently through his dark fur like she’d known him all her life.
This wasn’t the woman I’d studied. The cold, manipulative socialite. This woman was quiet. Kind. Gentle in ways I didn’t understand.
I was having trouble reconciling the woman I’d spent the past several months observing with the woman scratching Cato’s ears and smothering him with more affection than he’d probably gotten in a while, even from me.
Clearing my throat, I walked toward her. She glanced my way, but her attention remained fixed on the dog.
My fucking dog.
“You should drink this,” I said, extending the mug toward her. “It’ll help warm you up.”
She eyed it. “What is it?”
“Hot chocolate.”
She released her hold on Cato and stood, taking the mug. Our fingers brushed, just for a second, but the heat that flared inside me from her subtle touch could have lit the entire eastern coastline for years.
“I haven’t had this since I was a kid.” She lowered herself back onto the couch, covering her legs with the blanket.
Thank god.
“Sorry if it’s not up to your standards, Mrs. Kane , but drinking something warm is one of the best things you can do right now. That or some skin-to-skin time.”
Her eyes narrowed. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”
“Don’t flatter yourself.”
It came out rougher than I intended. Maybe that was a good thing. Maybe I needed to treat her coldly so I wouldn’t forget who she was. Who her husband was.
She brought the mug to her lips, blowing on it before taking a small sip. And then she moaned.
Fuck me.
The sound punched me in the gut. My cock responded instantly, and I gritted my teeth so hard my jaw ached.
“Don’t run again,” I barked. “If you do, I’ll know.”
I pointed toward the subtle red glow of one of the many cameras in the house. Her gaze floated toward the foyer, then returned to mine.
“Where are you going?”
“Work,” I said curtly.
“What am I supposed to do?”
“Figure it out. I’m not here to entertain you, Mrs. Kane.”
She tilted her head, the faintest trace of a smirk at the corner of her mouth. “Understood… Mr. Fontaine .”
The way she said it — slow, sultry, mocking — nearly undid me. I wanted to curse my body for reacting this way to her. I was usually in control.
Around her, I was unraveling.
I couldn’t have that.
Spinning around, I stalked down the stairs, barricading myself in my office.
But her voice echoed in my head.
So did that moan.