Chapter 15 #2
With a soft push, the door creaks open and shuts behind me with a muted click.
Warmth greets me immediately, the soft hum of the fireplace, the low golden glow from a few table lamps, and the faint scent of tobacco and leather lingering in the air.
The room is cavernous, but still manages to feel close and comforting.
The walls are a deep green panelled in walnut, adorned with oil portraits whose eyes seem to follow as I move.
There are two full-sized billiards tables stretched out beneath iron chandeliers that hang heavy with unlit candles, and along the edges of the room are groupings of antique chairs and tufted leather couches, all sagging in the way only old money furniture can, comfortable, worn, expensive.
At the far end of the room, a stone fireplace taller than I am crackles softly, the flames casting shifting shadows across the hearth.
Two tall wingback chairs sit angled toward it, a plush rug beneath them looking perfectly rumpled, like someone had once fallen asleep there mid-drink and never returned.
My eyes trail to the back wall, where the liquor cabinet isn’t even pretending to be hidden. Bottles sit proudly on open glass shelves, amber, emerald, obsidian, a quiet rebellion against any rules that might once have existed here.
I make my way over, fingers brushing the edge of a polished credenza as I pass.
When I reach the cabinet, I glance toward the trio of arched windows that overlook the grounds.
They’re massive, cathedral-sized, and framed by heavy velvet drapes.
I step closer, peering out through the slightly warped glass.
Below, a group of boys loiter beneath one of the estate’s old outdoor lamps, their shadows stretching long on the frost-bitten lawn.
One claps another on the back, laughter curling into the air like smoke.
They look like they belong here, laughing, untouchable, part of something.
I feel a sudden pinch of envy before I drag my gaze away.
With a sigh, I select a bottle filled with deep gold liquid and pour a generous measure into a crystal glass. It burns going down, a fire in my chest that feels almost holy. I reach for a second pour but change my mind and take the bottle instead. No one’s here to judge.
The fire murmurs behind me as I take another swig, already feeling the sting in my stomach unwinding into something looser. Softer. Easier to breathe.
To the right of the hearth sits an antique speaker system, brass knobs, leather casing, the kind of luxury no one makes anymore, but with modern fixtures.
I plug in my phone, scroll through my playlists until I find one that suits the flicker of firelight and the ache in my chest. A soft thrum of music fills the room, just enough to cover the distant echo of Deveroux House’s party across the grounds.
My lips tilt in a quiet smile as Paramore’s opening notes begin to play. I close my eyes, letting the beat roll over me, and take another drink. Then, without bothering to check, I step back toward the fireplace and sink into one of the high-backed chairs.
“If you wanted to sit in my lap, all you had to do was ask,” A familiar voice breaks my haven and I scream as I jolt back to my feet and spin around.
With wide eyes and my hand to my racing heart, it takes a second to process what I’m looking at.
Asher Vander.
Still in the same outfit he left me in this afternoon.
He's sitting there like a ghost tethered to the room, lit only by the flickering glow of the fireplace.
It throws dancing shadows across his features, and for a second, he looks like some brooding god of the underworld.
Hades watching his kingdom burn. There's an empty glass hanging lazily from his fingers and a flush in his cheeks that tells me this isn’t his first drink of the night.
“Wha...what the hell, Asher,” I stammer, my voice too loud in the heavy quiet.
His attention drifts from my face down my body, slow and bold. A shiver travels across my skin at the manner of his gaze, dark, unreadable, and far too intense. His tongue flicks across his bottom lip, and I feel my pulse skip.
“Why didn’t you say something when I came in?” I snap, more defensive than I mean to be.
He shrugs. “I was... preoccupied,” The words come out lazy, soaked in alcohol and exhaustion.
He raises the glass, realises it’s empty, and sets it down with a hollow clink.
The same tightness in his jaw from earlier is still there, but there’s something softer in his shoulders now.
The edge has dulled. Maybe the whiskey's doing its job.
I hesitate, staring at him.
His attention flicks to the fire behind me, the glow painting the brown iris molten gold. Something inside them is empty, drained, maybe broken, and before I even think about it, I’m holding out my bottle to him.
His gaze finds the bottle first, then shifts back to me.
The moment our eyes lock, it’s like gravity shifts.
That strange pull again. It keeps happening, and I don’t understand why.
He’s a stranger. A cruel one, half the time.
But there’s something in him, something raw, unguarded, that makes me feel like I’ve known him longer than I should.
It’s probably nothing. A trick of the mind. A trauma bond forming in real time. Maybe I’m grasping at anything that resembles warmth, just like with Silas. Still, I can’t pull away.
He takes the bottle from me by the neck, and without breaking eye contact, tips it back.
It’s such a small thing, his lips on the glass, the tilt of his head, but it makes my breath catch. My nipples harden instantly. And I realise too late that I’m only in a vest top. No bra. Great. He’ll definitely notice.
I tug the cardigan closed around my chest, crossing my arms to hide the reaction. The shorts don’t help either, bare legs stretched out under the firelight like an open invitation. I usually don’t care, but no one else makes my body betray me like Asher does. I hate that he knows it.
“Cute slippers,” he says, and the smirk that tugs at his lips is annoyingly charming.
I glance down and clip my heels together, making the pompoms bounce. “Thanks,”
When I glance back, the smirk is gone. He’s studying me. Searching. And then he nods toward the chair beside him. “You going to sit down?”
The other wingback looks ridiculously comfortable. There’s even a thick knit blanket draped over the arm, like fate’s tempting me. I bite the inside of my cheek and shake my head.
“You look like you didn’t want to be disturbed,”
I turn, meaning to leave. But I don’t get far before his hand circles my wrist. His skin is warm against my cold fingers, grounding me in place.
“Stay,” he says. One word, soft enough to disarm me.
I meet his eyes again. They’re open now. No mask, no performance. Only a man sitting in the wreckage of whatever storm he's caught in.
I nod.
He lets go, and I move to the chair beside him.
I sit carefully, tug the blanket over my legs, and take the bottle when he hands it back.
For a long time, we say nothing. We just pass the whiskey between us, the fire crackling in front of us and my music low in the background.
The warmth from the alcohol spreads slowly through my chest, chasing off the heaviness one slow sip at a time.
By the time we’re halfway through the bottle, my brain starts to buzz. My heart is still bruised, but I no longer feel on the edge of tears. I turn slightly, watching Asher.
The firelight softens him, outlines the harsh lines of his jaw, the curve of his mouth, the mess of his dark hair.
He resembles something out of a painting, tragic, beautiful, haunting.
I don’t know anything about art, but if I could paint, I’d try to capture this moment.
This feeling. The way some people are masterpieces not because they’re perfect, but because they’re real. Because they bleed.
“Do you want to talk about it?” I ask finally, my voice low. But it slices through the silence like a whip crack.
He stiffens. His jaw clenches. I see him battle with himself, fighting between vulnerability and instinct. He hates being seen. I’ve figured that out by now. For Asher, weakness is a wound he refuses to let anyone touch.
So, I do what I can. I offer him a sliver of truth. Just enough.
“My father all but told me he hates me tonight,”
He blinks at me, startled.
I laugh, bitter and dry. “It’s nothing new, honestly. I’ve known for years. I was a mistake, an inconvenience he never forgave. But tonight… he confirmed it. And suddenly it felt like everything I feared was true. That I’m not only unlovable to him. I’m unlovable to everyone. A stain,”
My eyes stay fixed on the fire, away from him. “My mother is the same, and…” I cut myself off. This version of Ruella doesn’t have a sister. I swallow hard, clear my throat, and drown the ache with another gulp of whiskey.
Silence settles between us again. It doesn’t feel heavy this time. Just honest.
“I’m exhausted,” he says, barely more than a whisper.
I glance at him; not sure I heard him right.
He’s still staring at me. But his whole posture has shifted. He’s softer, somehow. Unfolding.
“I have so many responsibilities,” he murmurs. “There’s the business. Classes. lacrosse. My sister. It’s all just… crushing. I feel like I can’t breathe most days,”
I nod. I know that feeling too well.
He looks away, shame flickering across his face.
“My mother’s an addict. I clean up after her, lie for her.
I pretend everything’s fine because someone has to.
My siblings need me to be the strong one.
And my father… he’s the reason for everyone’s misery.
He cheats, lies, and drags our name through the mud, and then he blames me when I can’t fix it fast enough,” His jaw tightens, eyes flashing. “Sometimes I wish he was dead,”
I don’t flinch. I don’t react at all. He notices.