Chapter 26
Chapter Twenty-Six
Ariana
I braced my palms on the edge of the kitchen counter and leaned my forehead against the wood grain of the cabinet. My skin still buzzed, heat simmering under the surface like an ember refusing to die out.
What the hell was wrong with me?
Henry Fontaine stole me and dropped me into this remote purgatory with little explanation. Whether I felt safer with him than I did with Victor didn’t change the reality of it. He’d brought me here and hidden me away.
And yet when I had the chance, when he was unconscious and completely vulnerable, I didn’t run.
I cleaned him up. Took care of him. Watched over him.
And I just almost let him kiss me.
Worse, I’d wanted him to kiss me.
I stood there like some wide-eyed teenager who’d never been kissed, leaning into him like he was gravity and I couldn’t wait to fall.
I blew out a long breath, trying to expel the fire still scalding my veins. Trying to focus on something other than how close Henry’s lips were to mine mere seconds ago.
I turned to the stove and lifted the lid off the pot. A fragrant steam rolled out — rich tomato, earthy basil, and salty parmesan. My stomach rumbled, but food was the last thing on my mind.
This had to be a trauma bond. Or Stockholm syndrome. Or whatever they called it when a woman started craving her captor’s mouth on hers. Which was why the best thing I could do was put space between us, especially now that he looked steadier than earlier this morning.
Grabbing a wooden spoon, I stirred the creamy tomato soup and was about to taste it when I felt a shift in the air that told me I was no longer alone.
I didn’t need to turn around.
Didn’t need to listen for his limping footfalls.
I could physically feel Henry getting closer, the hairs on my nape standing on end.
“Ariana…”
I squeezed my eyes shut at the rough timbre in his voice. But there was a softness I hadn’t heard before. One I wasn’t sure how to handle.
“Yes?” I whirled around and faced him, pretending I was unaffected by his presence.
“What almost happened back there…” He gestured toward the bathroom. “I didn’t mean to?—”
“It’s fine,” I interjected, my voice not sounding like my own. “You just said it yourself. It almost happened. It didn’t actually happen. So there’s nothing to discuss.” I spun around, continuing to stir the soup, although it was completely unnecessary.
“Ariana,” he sighed.
“You have a head injury,” I cut in, not looking at him. “Your judgment is compromised. Mine is, too, considering I’ve barely slept more than a few minutes at a time over the past twenty-four hours.”
He didn’t respond right away, the silence bearing down on me. I could feel the weight of what he wanted to say. A part of me wanted him to push back. Argue. Tell me it wasn’t just the head injury. That he couldn’t remember ever wanting to kiss someone as desperately as he wanted to kiss me.
He didn’t. Instead, he pushed out a long sigh. “Yeah. I guess you’re right.”
Relief and disappointment tangled in my chest. I gave him a tight-lipped smile before looking away again.
“Thank you, by the way,” he offered after several uncomfortable moments.
“For what?”
“Everything. Especially for not letting me die.”
“I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if I did, regardless of our circumstances.” I glanced his way before returning my attention to the pot.
“Whatever you’re making smells good,” he stated, his tone uneasy. As if he was just as uncertain how to act around me as I was.
“Tomato soup,” I offered a bit too quickly. Anything to take away from this awkwardness. “I’ll make some grilled cheese, too.”
“I’m going to sneak downstairs and grab some clean clothes.”
“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” I lowered my gaze to his ankle.
“I’ll use the railing,” he promised.
I hesitated. This was what I wanted, wasn’t it? Distance. Space. He didn’t need my help.
“Take it slow.”
He made it to the first step before a low curse escaped him. “Shit.”
I wiped my hands on a dishtowel and hurried toward him, finding him leaning against the railing, his face scrunched up in pain.
“I’m fine,” Henry insisted through a tight jaw. “I can do it.”
I rolled my eyes. “It’ll be quicker if you just let me get it. If you keep pushing yourself like this, it’ll prolong the healing process.”
I could tell he hated everything about this. Hated having to depend on me. Hated being seen as weak. But he eventually relented.
“Code’s 4-0-9-2,” he said, albeit reluctantly. “The duffel’s on the couch. Don’t touch anything else.”
“You have a code for your man cave?” I attempted a joke, lifting a brow. “What kind of things are you hiding in there?”
He didn’t smile. “Just…don’t.”
His warning piqued my curiosity more than any locked door could have, and I carefully climbed down the narrow stairs.
The keypad beeped when I entered the code. The latch clicked, and the heavy door creaked open. Cool air met me as I stepped inside.
Whatever I expected — a couch, a punching bag, maybe a desk with a laptop — this wasn’t it.
Rows of monitors lined the walls, casting a pale blue glow across the space.
The hum of machines filled the silence, steady and low like the purr of a sleeping beast. Some screens were dark.
Others showed live camera feeds of the woods outside, the living room, the kitchen.
One screen even had a clear view of the garage.
But my gaze snagged on one glowing monitor in particular.
A woman. Brunette. Striking.
I moved closer, blinking at the myriad of pictures filling the screen.
Smiling on a sun-drenched beach. Laughing with a coffee cup in hand.
Posing in a bathroom mirror with a messy bun and red lipstick.
Image after image, lined up in rows. Some looked like screen captures.
Others were clearly pulled from social media.
With every photo I examined, my heart pounded harder.
I knew her somehow. Her face and smile stirred something at the edges of my memory, so close yet just out of reach.
Who was she? Why did Henry have her pictures and social media posts displayed on the screen like some kind of obsession?
“Ariana?” His voice rang down the stairwell, sharp and impatient. “Did you find it?”
I flinched, my heart slamming against my ribs as I returned to the present.
“Coming!” I called breathlessly.
Turning from the screens, I grabbed the duffel and hurried out of the room. The bag was heavier than I expected. Or maybe it was the weight of the woman’s face burned into my memory.
Because I knew her.
I just didn’t know how.