18. Penelope
Until last night, when I allowed myself to taste each of the forbidden room service dishes Hawthorn ordered, I’d honestly forgotten what good food tasted like. But apparently it tastes even better when it’s a hot boy who’s feeding it to you. I know I shouldn’t be eating anything on my plate. The veggies might have been allowed, but definitely not when they’re coated in the rich, nutty sauce that’s making my taste buds dance with delight. But when I told him no, he ordered me to eat, and I couldn’t resist.
I know we must look bizarre, me sitting in just his shirt while he feeds me dinner, sharing a fork with me like it’s something we’ve done a thousand times before. But the more I allow myself to sink into his control, the easier it is for me.
Hawthorn isn’t like any of the men I’ve met before. Earlier, he demanded that I stop treating him like he was one of the boys on my great-grandfather’s list, and until he said it, I hadn’t really realized that’s what I’d been doing.
Until him, I thought boys were simple. My mom explained how to play with them, how to tease, how to coax, and how to lead them around with promises that I was never going to fulfill. But Hawthorn doesn’t react the way he should.
For years, I’ve been taught to act and behave a certain way. But when I do, he’s cold and disinterested. Then, when I feel at my weakest, in the moments that I’m too sad and pathetic and feeble to be the person I’m expected to be, he’s sweet and affectionate.
I don’t understand.
“When you’re acting like you think Penelope Rhodes ought to act, I call you Penelope. When you’re acting like the girl who gave me her virginity, the one I want to be around, the one I can’t keep away from, I call you Princess.”
He’s acting like I have a split personality or something, like I can control it.
Fitzy’s been asking me questions all through dinner, but I don’t know what answers they expect me to give. I don’t know who I am, I don’t know what I like, all I am is who I was told to be, but I can’t admit that.
“Right,” Fitzy announces, placing his silverware on his plate and pushing off his stool with a bright smile. “I didn’t know your exact measurements. Hawthorn said you were a size two, but having seen you, I think you might be closer to a zero, so some of the things I brought won’t fit, but how about we try some things on, and you can see if you like them?” he suggests.
“Okay, thank you.”
“I have a few more bits that I think might work in the car, I’ll just go grab them and the changing screen,” he says, striding through the boat and out onto the deck.
As soon as we’re alone, I feel the weight of Hawthorn’s gaze settle on me. He said he wants me to be Princess, but I don’t know who that is. Sometimes being near him is easy, but other times, like now, it’s hard because I don’t know what he expects of me. He likes to be in charge, and when I’m struggling to understand how to behave in this new reality I’ve found myself in, it’s a relief to allow him to take control. But I can’t allow myself to want and need him when he’s made it clear that he only likes the broken parts of me.
Sliding off my stool, I look around the small kitchen space. At home, we have staff who cook and clean, but this is a boat, and I haven’t seen anyone here other than him either time I’ve been here. “Thank you for dinner,” I say politely. “Do you have a dishwasher, or something?” I ask, feeling foolish.
“Have you ever used a dishwasher?” he asks, his lips quirking up into a smile.
“No, but?—”
“Come here.” He beckons me toward him.
Sighing I wrap my arms around my waist, feeling like I need to hold myself together. “Hawthorn?—”
“No,” he says decisively, cutting me off before I have a chance to speak. “I like you, Princess.”
“All of me, or just the broken parts?” I ask, shocking myself.
Reaching out, he snags my wrist, carefully pulling me off the stool and slowly reeling me toward him. “I’m sorry if I’ve made you feel like you have to behave a certain way. But I realized something tonight. I realized that I like you when you’re disarmed. I like you when you’re not playing games and when you’re being real. I like your perfect, flawless body, and I like the way you melt beneath me. I like the way you instinctively sway toward me when I’m close and how soft and sweet you are when you let that hard, practiced shell dissolve. I like that you let me take charge and that you like it too. I realized that I don’t want or need anything from you, I just fucking like you, Penelope.”
“I—”
His lips press against mine before I can speak again, slowly moving his mouth against mine in a way that’s different from the others we’ve shared. This kiss isn’t about lust or want, it feels more indulgent, like he’s kissing me just because he likes me and he wants to, and I don’t ever want it to stop.
The noise of a throat being cleared shatters the moment, and I try to pull away from him, but he doesn’t let me. Holding me tightly, he kisses me for a moment longer before he slowly pulls his lips from mine, keeping me pressed against his chest as he turns his attention to Fitzy.
“You ready to pick some clothes?” Fitzy says, with a smirk.
“Sure,” I say with a nod, stepping away from Hawthorn the moment he releases me.
Fitzy sets up a large screen in the corner of the living room area and motions for me to step behind it. “Okay, I’m a pretty good judge of size, so I think these should fit,” he says, handing me a bra and panty set made of pale-blue satin, edged with soft lace, then stepping out to give me some privacy to change.
It’s not a color I’d normally wear, but once it’s on, I love the way it looks against my skin, and I’m amazed to find it fits perfectly.
“Okay, so since we spoke about dresses and that’s a comfortable staple in your current wardrobe, I thought we could start there,” Fitzy says from the other side of the screen a moment before a garment bag appears.
Taking it from him, I unzip it and pull out a deep emerald green dress. Removing it from the hanger, I slip it over my head, smoothing the fabric down my body. The dress is fitted around my torso, with capped sleeves and an A-line style that flares slightly from the waist with a triangular cut-out section that reveals a small glimpse of the skin between my breasts and stomach. It’s exactly something my mom would choose.
“How does it fit?” he asks.
“It fits perfectly,” I say, and it does.
“Can I see?” he questions.
Stepping out from behind the screen, I find Fitzy waiting a few paces away and Hawthorn sitting on the couch, a beer in hand, his eyes on me.
“What do you think?” Fitzy asks, pulling my attention back to him.
“It’s nice,” I say politely.
“Nice,” Fitzy says, tipping his head to the side as he rolls the word across his tongue. “So, it’s a, no?”
“No. I don’t know. What do you think?” I ask him.
Exhaling a visible breath, his eyes go sad, and he crosses the room and wraps his arms around me in an unexpected hug. Freezing, I go stiff, but he doesn’t let me go. Instead, he makes a pained sound and squeezes me tighter. His build is much leaner than Hawthorn’s, but still solid and firm. When he eventually pulls back, he doesn’t release me completely, letting his fingers run along the end of my braid. “Oh, sweet girl,” he coos.
“I’m not sweet,” I tell him quietly. “That’s my sister.”
“Oh no, honey, that’s you too. You’re even more broken than she is, aren’t you?”
“I’m not broken, I’m just evil,” I whisper.
He shakes his head. “Oh, Penelope,” he sighs. “The bruises are just below the surface for you, aren’t they?” he murmurs quietly.
I don’t realize I’m crying until a tear rolls across my mouth and I taste salt on my lips. Cupping my cheeks gently, Fitzy wipes the tears away and looks at me like he sees something in me that’s not bad and twisted.
Clearing his throat, he smiles and releases my face. “That dress is a no. Unless it wows you and makes you feel beautiful, it’s not for you.”
Letting him guide me back behind the screen, I take the dress off and replace it with the next outfit he hands me. An hour later, I’ve discovered that I like wide-leg tailored pants, co-ords, skirts, and the color blue, and I have a real smile on my face for the first time in longer than I can remember.
Back home, I have closets full of clothes, but I’ve always endured shopping rather than enjoyed it. But trying on all these outfits with Fitzy has been fun. His enthusiasm for clothes is overwhelming, and with his sweet guiding help, I think I’m starting to figure out what I like.
A part of me expected Hawthorn to leave, or to at least turn on the TV or his laptop, but instead he sat on the couch with his feet propped on the coffee table and watched the fashion show I put on for him. At the beginning, I looked to him for his opinion, but he refused to comment either way until I’d told him how I felt about the outfit, like he didn’t want to temper my response with his opinion.
“Thank you,” I tell Fitzy as he collapses the privacy screen.
“Pah, this is what I live for,” he says, waving my thanks away. “I’ll be back the day after tomorrow with some more choices for you to look at now that we’re getting a firmer fix on your style and I have your proper measurements, then going forward, I’ll just send things out to you as I find them.”
“I’m not sure where I’m going to be staying,” I admit sheepishly. “At the moment, I’m at the Haywood Hotel. Do you bill me, or should I give you my credit card details? How does this work?” I ask.
“Oh, it’s already sorted,” Fitzy says, leaning in to press a kiss against my cheek. “And I have your cell number, so I’ll just text you and you can let me know where you want me to bring the next batch of things for you to try.”
“How is it sorted? Are you going to send the bill to the hotel?” I ask, concerned. The clothes I just picked out equate to thousands of dollars. I know he knows I can afford it, but I still need to know how to pay him.
“He’s putting it on my account,” Hawthorn says.
“What, why?” I gasp, spinning to face him.
“Because I told him to.”
“Right, my darlings,” Fitzy interrupts, “I’ll leave you to it. Penelope, it was a pleasure to meet you. I’ll see you soon.”
“Thanks for coming,” Hawthorn says, embracing Fitzy in a man hug before the older man leaves, pulling the rail of clothes behind him.
I wait until Fitzy closes the door to the deck behind him before I turn to Hawthorn. “What just happened? Why would my clothes go on your account? I have access to my trust fund; I can buy my own things.”
“Come here, Princess,” he calls, gesturing for me to go to him.
“No,” I snap, crossing my arms across my chest and holding my ground. “You can’t just buy my clothes.”
“Why not?” he asks calmly, moving toward me and ignoring my obvious annoyance.
“Because you can’t, people don’t just buy other people a whole new wardrobe,” I say, uncrossing, then re-crossing my arms, fidgeting beneath his unwavering gaze.
“I really couldn’t give a fuck what other people do. I wanted to do this, so I did,” he says, his expression intense, but calm.
“I have money,” I insist.
“I know, we all have money, more than we’ll ever need.”
“So, I don’t need you to pay for my things.”
“I know that. But I’m still going to,” he says, reaching for me and pulling me to him. “The customary response to a gift is thank you.”
“Hawthorn.”
His sigh is loud. “For fuck’s sake, Princess, stop being a pain in the ass and just say thank you, then kiss me.”
Wary, I stare at him suspiciously, trying to understand his motives, what he thinks this gift is going to get him, and what game this is.
“Jesus,” he mutters, palming the back of my head and slamming his lips to mine.
Mom always taught me that every interaction with a boy had a purpose and that I should always ensure that I used every moment to my advantage. A shy look here, a soft touch there. She promised me I could make them all fall in love with me if I just learned their weak spots. So I know how to play with a guy. But in the past, everything has always been on my terms, and I never gave more than I needed to get what I wanted.
But none of the rules I’m used to living by apply to Hawthorn. The money is gone, he knows that, he helped me get out from beneath its burden. So what game is he playing, or am I the one who’s playing with him?
No. How can I be manipulating him when I absolutely have no idea what’s going on?
“Stop thinking,” he growls against my lips a second before he reclaims them, kissing me until I’m not capable of thinking about anything but him.
Allowing myself to cede control and melt into the kiss, I bask in the way his huge body makes me feel small and protected. I let myself enjoy the way it feels to be held tight, like he doesn’t want me to escape, and how when I’m in his arms, I feel like it’s possible to just be me. I don’t understand how, but Hawthorn gives me hope that maybe, just maybe, I can forge a better future for myself, one where I don’t have to be the villain in my own story anymore.
When he pulls back, I cling to him, not ready to let go just yet. “Thank you,” I whisper.
I feel his smile against my cheek when he presses a soft, barely there kiss on it. “You’re welcome.”
We stay wrapped up in each other for several long minutes, not kissing or talking, just breathing the same quiet air. “I should go,” I exhale sadly.
“Or you could stay,” he says, pulling away until I’m looking up into his handsome face.
“I don’t understand. We already had sex,” I say bluntly, then immediately regret it. I’m used to being the tease, the one leading every conversation and flirtation, but with Hawthorn, I feel like I sound like a na?ve idiot.
“Jesus, Penelope, I love fucking you, but that isn’t the reason I brought you here or why I want you to stay with me,” he growls, gripping my chin between his finger and thumb and forcing me to look at him.
“I don’t understand,” I cry. He told me he likes me, he’s told me he wants me, and he told me I’m his, but that was about sex, wasn’t it?
A sadness fills his eyes, and I instantly prickle, I don’t want his pity.
“Have you ever had a boyfriend?”
I shake my head.
“Ever had a guy friend?”
I shake my head again.
“Ever had a friend?”
Scowling, I rip my chin from his grip and try to turn away, but he curls his arm around my waist and hauls me roughly back to him. Carrying me with my feet dangling just above the floor, he backs me into a wall, then cages me in, imprisoning me in place with his massive body pressed firmly against mine.
“Don’t fucking turn away from me when I’m talking to you. When we’re having a conversation, I want to see your eyes,” he snarls, his own eyes angry and daring me to look away.
“Okay,” I whisper. What he’s doing and how he’s acting should be frightening, but he’s not hurting me. If I really wanted to leave, I think he’d let me despite our size difference, because even though he’s huge and has me pinned to a wall, I feel utterly protected by him.
“Now listen to me carefully, because I’m going to spell it out for you so you don’t ever think I only want you for sex ever again. I.Like. You. I want to figure you out. Yes, I want to fuck you. Yes, I want to kiss and touch you and watch you do what I ask you to, but that’s not all I want.”
My lips part in shock, but no sound comes out as I watch him swallow, his eyes burning with heat as he stares at me.
“Not everything has to make perfect sense, Princess. I want to take care of you. I want to protect you and look after you. I think I want to fucking keep you, which is confusing the fucking hell out of me, but the truth is that I don’t think you’re evil. I don’t think you’re a bad person.”
I open my mouth to speak, but he glares, shaking his head to silence me.
“I’m not an idiot. I know you’ve done bad shit. I know you’ve used and manipulated and lied. I know you’ve done stuff that has tarnished you. But the things you’ve done don’t have to define you, not if you learn from them.”
His words are honest and brutal, but his touch is so soft that I barely realized that he’s stroking my cheek until he’s stopped speaking and is just watching me.
“I’ll take you back to the hotel, but I want you to think about what I’ve said. You don’t have to be alone, Penelope. Your sister wants a relationship with you, she wants to be in your life. I want to be in your life. Hell, after one night, I can guarantee that Fitzy wants to be in your life, and all you have to do is let us. I won’t tell you what to do, even though I can see from the way you’re looking at me that you want me to. This has to be your decision.”
“I’m not a good person to be around, I don’t trust who I am,” I admit, closing my eyes so I don’t have to see his face.
“So choose to be different. Choose to be a sister, choose to be a friend, choose to be mine. But whatever you do, you have to be the one to choose it. You. Not your mom and dad, not some dead guy, not me. You.”